


Lights, Camera, Action (You Know The Kind I Mean)

by AJ_Lenoire



Series: Avengers Fan Fiction Collection [15]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Awesome Laura Barton, Awesome Peggy Carter, Clint Is a Good Bro, Don't Have to Know Canon, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Natasha Needs a Hug, Steve Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 111,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/pseuds/AJ_Lenoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breaking News! Hollywood's up-and-coming <em>it</em> boy, James "Bucky" Barnes  has just accepted a place in Natasha "Scarlet Starlet" Romanoff's newest film! Not much is known about the story, and even the title's still shrouded in mystery, but with the heartthrob in for the lead role, and the Scarlet Starlet, a fabulous actress-turned-director in her own right, everyone's sure that it's sure to be <em>the</em> film to see this summer!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crimson Connections (How Come You Never Told Me?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: The Scarlet Starlet herself is _not only_ living it up in London, bringing press and hype to her newest release, but also hunting for the lead in _another_ new film! They say there's no rest for the wicked, then this femme-fatale of both the silver screen and the camera must be very wicked indeed! But there is one question on everyone's lips: who will be the star of this new film? Guesses are ranging wildly, since even the title and basic plot are on intense-lockdown. Romanoff seems to be wanting to unleash a real surprise this time around!

He’d actually fallen asleep on the sofa when Steve came to get him, but the sound of the phone ringing woke him up a few moments before.

“Hello?” Steve asked, picking up the phone and stopping the loud chorus of _Call Me Maybe_ which they both thought was absolutely hilarious about three years ago. But by the time the novelty had worn off, they had forgotten how to change the song, and so just lived with it. “Oh my god, hey!” Steve sounded very excited at whoever’s voice it was, suggesting they hadn't talked in a while, “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. How’re you? Good, good. And how’s―? ...Aw, he got married? That’s sweet.” Apparently a friend of the caller had just gotten married, thought Bucky, and then he rolled his eyes for being simplistic. “No, yeah,” Steve’s voice continued, “Yeah, we’re both still... No _way!_ You’re serious? ...Of course he’d be interested – wait, he’s here right now, let me get him. _Hey, Bucky!_ ”

Steve’s voice was excited as he rounded the corner of the apartment they shared. A luxurious two-bedroomed penthouse that either of them could have easily afforded on their own, but there was something just _better_ about living with your best friend (at times. Bucky still labelled his food clearly and refused to do Steve's laundry as much as refusing to let Steve do _his_ ). Steve had the phone in one hand and was covering the speaker with the other one, looking like he was about to explode with sheer excitement.

Bucky could deduce a few things about the caller from what he’d heard over the phone. One: it was neither his agent nor Steve’s who’d been talking, as they talked regularly and as far as he knew all of their friends were _already_ married. Two: it was still someone Steve knew personally, but probably not someone Becky himself knew too well. And three: they apparently had an offer of some sort for Bucky. Five bucks said it was just an appearance as the-shmuck-who-dies-at-the-beginning-of-an-episode part for some CSI-esque cop show.

But it was still something, and hey, his popularity had upped in the past few years, and he'd gotten offers for more important parts in films; actually he'd played small-but-signifant roles in no less that eight films over the past four months alone, but for now he was out of work. With this in mind, he turned so he no longer hand his legs dangling off the edge of the seat, and stood up. “Yeah?” He asked, and his eyes darted to the phone, “Who is it?”

Steve grinned so wide it seemed his face might split in half. He held out the phone, mouthing _go find out_.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky took the phone and held it to his ear, “Y’ello?” He asked,

“Hello, James, this is Natasha Romanoff.” Came a smooth, feminine voice from the end of the phone. Bucky almost dropped it there and then.

Natasha Romanoff?

 ** _The_** _Natasha Romanoff?_ The Scarlet Starlet? One of Hollywood’s most critically-acclaimed directors, and before that, the crown jewel of its silver screens? The femme-fatale of the world of film? _She_ was calling _him? **Personally?**_

Wait...Steve _knew_ Natasha Romanoff and had **_never_** bothered to tell him? Oh, he’d be having _words_ with the smug-faced bastard once this was over.

“M-Miss Romanoff!” Bucky yelped, because he was still shocked that she was even calling him – time enough to yell at Steve later. He wasn’t sure what to say though. How could he say he admired her work without coming off as a hysterical fan? Or a creepy stalker? But it was true, she was one of his favourite actresses and directors, and still only twenty-seven years old, she’d had Hollywood and everyone in it wrapped around her finger since she was twenty-one, and scored her first large part in a film that had taken the West by storm – and most of the East, too.

“From your surprise I presume you’ve heard of my work?” There was a wry edge to hr voice, but it wasn’t demeaning, more like it was an in-joke for just the two of them. At that, Bucky relaxed a little, and smiled,

“Very much so.” He replied, “It’s a pleasure to be talking to you, but may I ask why you’re calling?” Okay, _when_ did he get so formal?? But from the tinkling bell of laughter he heard from the other end, a peal of amusement, he’d said the right thing.

“I’m surprised you don’t know, to be honest.” She said, but even that sentence didn’t make him feel like an idiot, the amusement was clearly more towards the situation than at his own expense. He’d read about how Romanoff could play any man’s – and almost any woman’s – emotions like an angel played the harp, and all the while you’d just be praying for her never to stop. Everyone liked her, and some of the men feared her, because she’d played badass-spies in several movies, and had picked up a lot from her on-set combat training. One of the incidents that had made her so popular was when she beat up a guy who tried to mug her single-handedly. In a dark alley. In heels.

“Would you care to enlighten me?” He asked respectfully, worrying if he came off as cold. He was a good actor, but he didn’t have as much raw talent as she did, and played people’s emotions like a four-year-old played the drums.

“Of course,” She sounded genuinely pleased by the idea, “As you probably already know, your own popularity has grown since your last feature – _Snow Warrior_ – was released earlier this year. You’re Hollywood’s new _it_ boy.” There was a smile in her voice that made him believe she was genuinely proud of him. He liked this woman; she wasn't as good as the magazines said, she was better.

“I had heard that, yes,” He admitted, “But I tend to avoid my own press too much. I for one don’t believe that all publicity is good publicity.” He had no intention to end up like some actors did; getting plastered and high and having their drunken, tripping faces splattered across every magazine in California.

“Well that makes you even better.” Natasha replied, “Because I’m calling to personally offer you the lead role in my newest film, and I need someone who can keep his head down and his reputation intact during filming. Are you interested?”

Bucky almost fainted on the spot.

Hell, he sat down so heavily on the chair that it squeaked indignantly and scuffed back a few inches. He was silent for so long that Natasha began to get concerned.

“Hello? ...Mr Barnes? ...James? ...Are you still there?”

“Uh...yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Sorry, Miss Romanoff―”

“Please, Natasha is fine.”

“Ah, right. Yeah, sorry about that, um, _Natasha_. It’s just...such a _huge_ offer, I don’t...I...” he trailed off. Steve was clearly looking at him like _what the **hell** are you doing?! This could be your big break!_ And indeed, a sizeable portion of himself was thinking the same. But at the same time... He didn’t know, he just couldn’t explain it.

“I understand.” Natasha’s voice help no hint of offence, “It’s a big offer, and you need some time to think it over. Call me back when you make your decision, but a prompt response would be highly appreciated.”

“Noted, Miss—ah, Natasha.” Bucky smiled, “I’ll get back to you A-S-A-P, but thank you very much regardless.”

“Until then, James.” She replied, and there was the _click_ of her hanging up.

Bucky lowered his hand and stared at the phone – at least, until Steve snatched it out of his hands and glared at him.

“What the _hell?_ ” He demanded, “The headline role in a film being directed by your _favourite_ actress _and_ director? What more d’you want? A flying pig?” Bucky could tell it was the sort of annoyance that came from someone you love being exasperating, so it wasn’t _too_ sincere.

"How could _you_ not tell me you knew the Scarlet Scarlet!" Bucky retorted, and Steve looked at him as if to say _really_ _? **That's** what you took from tha_ _t conversation?_

At last he found his voice again and spluttered, "Don't change the subject! How could you not take that offer on the spot?" He was still annoyed, but whether he was _actually_ annoyed or just pissed because he was Steve and he was Bucky, there was no telling. But either way it was funny, and he laughed.

But then he remembered properly; it truly sank in: _Natasha Romanoff had **called** him_.

He stared at the floor like it had some divine answers – when in truth it was just a white shag rug. It was a nice rug, and went with the whole clean-white thing Steve liked. Bucky didn’t really mind either way, so just went along with it for Steve’s sake. Soon he was staring at the floor so hard that Steve, too, was looking at it, wondering if there was a stain on it or something.

“Oh my god.” Bucky said numbly. “Oh my _god_.”

“What?” Steve asked, looking up at his friend, still slightly tetchy for being laughed at.

“She is...whoa.” Bucky murmured, and he looked up too meet Steve’s eyes, “Okay, it can’t just be me, she _literally_ sounds like sex, right?”

Steve laughed, and at once all the annoyance was gone. “You ain’t heard nothing yet – and wait til you _see_ her.” He grinned, “It’s very different in person, when she’s not all made up for the silver screen.”

Oh yeah, now Bucky remembered how Steve knew Natasha. They'd known each other in college, but had fallen out of touch upon graduation. A few years ago, they'd reconciled of a sort when Steve had worked with her on one of her films; in fact it had been one of the first films she’d directed. It seemed that they’d kept in touch that time – well, sort of. They didn’t meet up every Friday for coffee, but they still had each other’s numbers, that much was clear. So of course Steve would know more of the _real_ her, not the made up, fake versions that played their parts.

And he wasn’t sure whether the idea of seeing _the real her_ excited him or terrified him. Most likely both.

“Gimme the damn phone.” He said bluntly. Grinning, Steve handed it over. Bucky pressed a few buttons and hit _dial_ on the most recent caller’s number. It rang for a few seconds before it was picked up.

“Hello?” _Damn_ , he thought, _her voice really **does** sound like sex. _Then he chided himself. _Not the best thing to be thinking about when you're discussing a potential part_ , he told himself, and the horny-alley-cat part of his brain was respectful enough to shut up; for now, at least.

“Natasha.” Bucky said, grinning.

“James?” She said blankly; evidently not having expected him to call back so soon.

“Yeah,” He replied, his grin growing steadily wider, “About the part... I’ll take it.”


	2. Sanguine Script (And Little Wooden Book-Coffins)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: This month's must-see film, the highly-anticipated _FitzSimmons_ is rolling out onto the red carpet just next week! The two stars, Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons, who are not only using their real names for the project, but also their expertise in science, give exclusive interviews and tidbits about what's to come, but are taking after their director and keeping their lips, for the most part, tightly sealed (however many hope that this is not the case for their characters in the film, as the British darlings quickly became fan-favourites as well as a power-couple after their roles were announced. Said director, the critically acclaimed Natasha Romanoff, is also at the premiere, celebrating ten months' work well done, but few reporters have questions regarding _FitzSimmons_. Everyone wants to know the details of her newest film - and are the rumours of her recruiting her old friend and former-co-star Steve Rogers for the lead role true?

Over the next few weeks, the plans were slowly sorted. Natasha was actually not in California, rather she was in London, wrapping up filming and doing press on her current film; _FitzSimmons_ , about two young scientists from the UK being recruited by a secret government organisation. Most would think it would be a generic spy film, but Natasha Romanoff was _anything_ but generic. The story fell into her hands and she made it gold on a screen.

At any rate, because of the time difference and the fact that she was busy, Bucky only talked to her a few times on the phone. Mostly her assistants told her anything she needed. Her assistant-in-chief was a lifelong friend of hers called Clint – the guy who’d apparently just gotten married. He, too, was in the movie business, as a make-up artist, among other things, always helping out on set (in fact it was a running gag that he was an extra in every single one of Natasha’s films, as a thank you for all his hard work as well as a joke between the two of them). Bucky came to know Clint very well. The guy was nice, not bad looking and a couple years older than Natasha, which made him slightly _too_ glad about the fact that he was married.

But on those rare occasions when he managed to talk to Natasha herself – or as he was thinking of her in his head increasingly, _Nat_ – he always ended up hanging up with a shit-eating grin on his face that Steve never failed to point out. He’d also landed a part for the film, but it was smaller (obviously; Bucky had landed the lead).

When the script had first fell into his hands he’d taken care to read every single one of the lines, knowing Natasha had, too, and had perfected them as she saw fit; he could almost imagine her, the Scarlet Starlet herself, going over with a pencil and crossing out here, adding there, and making it a masterpiece as only she could. He loved every single word and he just _knew_ it would be his biggest hit yet, he could _feel it_.

It was a thing with him, once that Steve found kind of amusing, but Bucky kept the entire script for every single piece of acting he ever did. Whenever he was in a film, he bought the glossiest, most awesome-looking release poster (awesome-looking had nothing to do with him being on it, but that definitely helped) and framed it on his bedroom wall, with a small brass plaque at the bottom of the frame that read the first- and last date of filming, the date of release, and his character’s name (as if he’d ever forget). He kept all the scripts in special boxes with similar plaques on the sides. Steve thought it was funny that he had a bookcase of A4-sized boxes with plaques on the side that made them look like wooden books, but Bucky just liked the idea of having something to show his work.

Besides, it wasn't like he paraded them around the apartment. He kept them in his room.

Some of the boxes are, of course, bigger than others, and whilst the script for Natasha’s newest film (the working title being _Civil Betrayal_ ) was not the thickest there, it was certainly on the hefty side.

“Do _not_ tell me you’re measuring the script.” Came Steve’s voice as he walked into Bucky’s room, only to find his best friend sat at the desk with a tape measure in his hands.

Bucky shrugged defensively, “What?” He asked, “I like to keep them nice.”

“So you put them in a glass case, not little coffins.” Steve replied, plucking the tape measure from his roommate’s hand and walking over to Bucky's DVD collection. Steve was a bitch for borrowing things and forgetting to return them, so Bucky kept all his DVDs (which was quite a lot) in a DVD stack in his own room, next to the TV. To be honest, they only really shared a kitchen and a general living area. They could both afford their own computers, TVs and anything else that took their fancy.

“I’m gonna watch _Scarlet Widow_ ,” Steve then announced. Bucky rolled he eyes. Of course, Natasha’s first big film. She was twenty in that, it was just over seven years old, and it was the first big role she’d landed. Even then she’d been stunning.

“Are you gonna watch with me or keep measuring the script for its coffin?” Steve asked, returning from Bucky’s room with the DVD in his hand. Bucky blushed, and that was all the answers he needed.

“Buck, you _need_ to get this crush under control if you’re gonna work with her.” Steve said, now very serious; the kind, sweet Steve he knew best, and all the ladies _loved_. “Natasha’s a great woman to work with, but she has her boundaries, and you drooling over her will _not_ end well.”

“I can keep it in my pants, Steve.” Bucky frowned, and Steve laughed,

“Can you?” He asked, “You must’ve slept with every showgirl on set from that war film we did a couple years back.” Bucky had the decency to blush again, because that was mostly true. Luckily none of the girls had brought it to the press – a reason he was a little unnerved by, but nonetheless grateful for.

“Nonetheless, if you’re trying to sleep with her, she’ll be able to see you’re not giving it your all, and she’ll fire you. If there’s one thing she loves, it’s a devoted actor.”

“You can trust me, Steve.” He promised, “The script is _amazing_ , you must’ve read it.”

“They only sent me my bit.” He shrugged, “I’m all for doing a good job, but I tell them only to send the scenes I’m in, saves on paper and time. The rest of the story I’ll pick up from watching the takes.”

Bucky gave him a strange look, but he knew Steve was a respectful guy and a dedicated actor in his own right, he was just less nostalgic about the whole endeavour. But that was his choice. To be honest, Bucky kind of felt like Steve was acting the whole time. As a kid, he’d been shy and quiet and reclusive, but he’d never back down from a challenge or a fight, and he’d never give in. So when someone said he couldn’t be an actor, he’d made out to prove them wrong, and found that he loved it in the process.

“Alright.” Bucky shrugged, “But try not to be too dazzled by the director, either.”

Steve laughed at that, and swung his arm over Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him away from the script he’d been measuring and into the living room.

When they turned on the TV, it was on a news channel, and three people were headlining across the screen. It was about Natasha’s new film, _FitzSimmons_ , so obiously _she_ was one of those people, but the other two were real-life-scientists-turned-actors Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz; the well-known amalgamation of their real surnames forming a single word too perfect to not, in Natasha’s apparent opinion, be used at the film’s title. Indeed, for the longest time before it’s cast-premiere last week, everyone had thought Leo was playing the lead role of _FitzSimmons_ , and Jemma was to be his as-of-yet-nameless co-star and love-interest.

But of course Bucky wasn’t listening to the reporter drone on about this. No, he was watching Natasha in the background, hugging her two stars and posing for the cameras like it was the most natural thing in the world. Even fuzzy, into the background of a shot, she looked stunning, and her iconic coppery-red hair, the trademark that had earned her her nickname in the first place, was entirely indiscreet.

 _My god, if Steve said she looked even nicer outside of all the make up..._ He thought to himself, and felt a little ill. All of this was happening so fast. The lead role of a project. That project was _good_. It was already hyped and nothing was known beyond its existence. It was being directed by _literally_ his favourite celebrity. He kept pinching himself, all the way through _Scarlet Widow_ , as though fearing he was dreaming and soon he would have to wake up and accept this all as some fanciful dream.

But each time, the pinches hurt, and despite the pain, Bucky felt himself grinning. He knew he was in for the ride of his life with this one.


	3. Ruby Return (Smouldering First Impressions)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Reporters swamp _Avengers Studios_ as Steve Rogers and James "Bucky" Barnes go there for their first meeting with the Scarlet Starlet herself. Everyone wants to know what the femme-fatale of the silver screen has planned for Hollywood's two newest (and sexiest) _it_ boys, but it seems they will be abiding her policy of lips tightly sealed. In other news, _FitzSimmons_ rolls out the red carpet and premiers to the public, and even though its only been three days, it's no surprise that Romanoff's newest feature is breaking records and blowing minds!

The headquarters of _Avengers Studios_ was a gorgeous tower in the middle of the city; stretching several hundred metres high with a large platform sticking out of its vaguely-triangular-shape about two thirds of the way up. That floor belonged to the head of the Studios, Nicholas “Fury” Jackson, but Natasha Romanoff was such a feather in their cap that she had her own floor exactly above it; one of the most coveted views in the city.

Standing just outside the building, Bucky and Steve looked up and gulped.

“It’s...bigger than I remember.” Steve muttered, and for a moment Bucky saw the real him that didn’t pose for cameras; the shy, kind of quiet, and a little old-fashioned Steve he’d grown up with. Bucky grinned and threw his arm over Steve’s shoulders,

“Don’t worry,” He said, “It’s not like we’re meeting Hollywood’s best actor and director.” He grinned, doing his best to hide the rabid butterflies re-enacting the civil war in his stomach.

Steve turned to him with a smirk, “True,” He admitted, “So, you ready?”

“Honestly, no.” He admitted, “But it wouldn’t be nearly as fun if I was.” He added, and they both strode in to the lobby.

The whole building had an air of high-tech-future-meets-ice-palace; it was elegant and awesome in literally every way. Everything was silver or white and very clean and cut. Steve surely loved it.

The woman at the reception looked nice enough, with blonde hair and a name tag that said _Sharon_ in clear writing.

“Good morning, sir,” She said, not looking at the pair. “How may I help you?”

“Hello, Miss.” Bucky smiled, trying to calm down the butterflies, “I’m Bucky Barnes, and—” She held up a hand with an apologetic smile,

“No, sir, I’m sorry we—No, of course not. Yes, I will see to it that... Yes Mr Coulson. Have a good day, too.” She pressed a button on the little contraption in her ear (some sort of wireless phone, no doubt, Bucky hated the things) and then turned to them,

“Sorry about that,” She said, but both the men assured her it was fine. Phil Coulson was the second-in-command, so to speak, of _Avengers Studios_ , as well as a highly-respected member of the general hierarchy. He was responsible for the good press and quality management that kept _Avengers Studios_ ahead of _Hydra Films_ in the ratings. “How may I help you?”

“Well,” Bucky started over, “I’m Bucky Barnes and this is Steve Rogers, we’re here to see—” She smiled and cut him off again, but for a different reason.

“Ah, yes, Miss Romanoff said you two would be coming in later.” She confirmed with a smile, “She came in an hour ago, and said you two were her first appointment.” She handed them little lanyard badges with _VISITOR_ in large letters.

“She’s on floor thirty-six.” She told them, “Go right up in the elevator, you can’t miss it.” She gave Steve a flirtatious smile which he returned with a slightly forced one. He honestly hated being hit on, he just wanted to do his job. But he was being kind to her because she was actually a nice receptionist; some of them were grumpy old hags; and because a flirty wave was hardly the worst thing that had happened (a number of women sprang to mind, at that, including one who's attempted to scale Bucky and Steve's building).

* * *

When the doors opened on floor thirty-six there was another receptionist desk, with a quite pretty woman sat behind it. She kind eyes and chestnut brown hair pulled back in a bun. Her nametag read _Maria_ , and her eyes sparkled mischievously when she saw Steve, but in a different way to how Sharon’s had.

“You must be Misters Barnes and Rogers?” She asked them,

“Yes ma’am.” Bucky grinned, and she gave him a mildly amused look that seemed to say _seriously?_ but in a friendly way. Bucky blushed a little; he’d picked up the habit from hanging out with Steve-who-was-so-old-fashioned-he-might-as-well-be-from-the-forties and working on that war film with, like, three hundred gorgeous showgirls for a year and a half.

“Well you’re right on time.” She told them, “Miss Romanoff's office is right at the end, you can’t miss it. Have a nice day.”

“You, too, Maria.” Steve grinned, as though they were old friends. They made to walk past the desk and off to the right, where Maria was pointing, but Steve stopped to lean on the desk and talk with her. “Hey, did you hear about Clint?”

“Sure did.” She smiled “You met her yet?”

“’Fraid not, I’ve been busy.” Steve confessed, “I only found out recently.”

“Well, you’re in for a nice time, she’s an absolute sweetheart.”

“Hey, if she can reel in Barton she’s gotta be some sort of miracle worker.” Steve shrugged, “See you round!”

“See you!” She smiled, giving them a small wave as they made their way down the hall. Bucky gave Steve a confused sort of look, so much so that Steve eventually turned to him, frowning.

“What?” He asked,

“Do you know _everyone_ in this building?” Bucky asked, "Natasha, Maria – are you meeting Fury for coffee later?"

Steve shrugged defensively, “Maria’s been Natasha assistant for years. Those two and Barton, they’re tighter than family.”

“And you’re now part of this family?”

“Well, I like to keep in touch with the people I meet.” He replied with a shrug. Their conversation was halted then, because they’d reached the office door. Bucky might have raised his hand to knock on it, had the door not already been open.

He’d had many thoughts about what his first encounter with Natasha Romanoff might have been like. But her running around an office with another Bluetooth-ear-phone-thing in her ear, moving things around and pulled out files from cabinets was not one of them.

But _damn_ if Steve was right. He hadn’t seen anything yet.

Her red hair was bright and rich like a ruby, but she was renowned for the fact that it was all natural, down to the silky curls. It was slightly longer than shoulder length, bouncing as she moved, dashing around to put her office back in order. She was wearing a white shirt and a black pencil skirt that hit her knees, with black heels that looked really painful to walk in, but she moved in them seamlessly. Her eyes were glittering green and never still, her lips were as red as her hair and her skin was flawless porcelain, and yet he could tell that she wasn’t wearing any makeup beyond a hint of black eyeliner.

It was fascinating, seeing her move and act completely naturally, unaware of their presence there. He took a moment to examine the office itself. Like much of the building it was all white and silver and glass, with a large window on the left showing the city below, and long white shelves along the back filled with folders and little trophies. Along the right wall were several framed movie posters – her biggest hits, he recognised instantly – and in the center of the room on pure white carpet was a large glass desk with silver metallic legs.

But then Steve had to ruin the whole scene. He grinned at Bucky, evidently taking amusement in his gobsmacked expression, then knocked his knuckles lightly against the door, where a glittering silver plague read _Natasha Romanoff_. As if they didn’t already know.

At the sound of the knocking, Natasha stopped still, a file in one hand an (oddly) a small potted rose-bush in the other (the crimson roses were nothing compared to the colour of her hair, Bucky thought) looking very pissed off, but at the same time, apologetic for being pissed off and entirely unorganised.

She had a phone stuffed between her shoulder and ear, and took a moment to say, “Sorry, Clint, I’ve gotta go, my eleven ‘o’clock is here. You can tell me about your traitor foetus later. Yeah... Yeah, say hi to her for me. Love you too. Yeah, bye.” And she pulled it from her shoulder, having put down the file and potted roses on the desk. She shoved the plant towards the opposite edge of the desk, next to the shiny steel prism that read _Natasha “Starlet Scarlet” Romanoff_ in black-enamel lettering, and underneath, in smaller text _actress and director_.

“Sorry about that, boys.” She said, gesturing loosely to the two white leather office chairs in front of her desk, whilst she sat behind her desk in a third. “I only got back from London last night, and what with the time difference...” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, I didn’t realise how late I was running.” She made an effort to smooth down her hair, but Bucky though it already looked fine. Better than fine, actually, beautiful. It was totally _not_ fair how someone could look and sound so sexy, but at the same time be _the_ cutest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“ _Anyway_ ,” She said, pulling her file towards her. “Sorry about that, let’s get down to business.” She took a deep breath to presumably calm herself, and then it was all business.

They discussed what the roles would ask of them, on a physical level as much as a matter is scheduling, and she stressed implicitly how important it was that they kept themselves together on the outside – the last thing anyone needed was to have their face splattered across every gossip magazine with the headline _Hollywood Star gets High as the Stars!_ She demanded of them decorum and discretion – and even made them sign a legally binding contract that forbade them from revealing any details of the film beyond the fact that they were in it to the general public.

But after all of that was over, and even mostly during the business part, she was a sultry, sexy delight. Several times Bucky had to chide himself because he was staring too much or laughing too hard, and he wasn’t _trying_ to come across as flirty or even anything more than friendly, but something about her...he couldn’t explain. He just liked _being_ around her, and it didn’t help that Steve kept kicking him in the shins semi-discreetly under the table whenever he did something stupid like laugh too loud at her witty remarks or drop his jaw when she leant across the desk to point to something specific on their contracts with her pen.

By one ‘o’clock everything was sorted out and Natasha bid them goodbye with a strong handshake and a polite farewell. He’d always liked that in a girl: a strong handshake and a wit sharp enough to cut. Bucky was pretty sure it wasn’t just him when he decided she lingered on his handshake just a fraction of a moment too long – not that he was complaining. Even without make-up, close up her skin was porcelain flawless and her eyes were such a deep sea-green he could easily loose themselves in them. Everything about her made him want to drool, but he was scared she’d see that as him only taking part in her film to try and sleep with her. In truth she _was_ a genius; both in front of the camera and it was just an honour to be personally sought out by the Scarlet Starlet. One he intened to use to its fullest extent.

“I’ll see you boys on Monday,” She said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment at one ‘o’clock.”

“Oh?” Bucky asked, and she grinned,

“My lunch.” She replied, and she guided them out the door of her office, picking up her handbag as she went. Maria, the secretary from earlier, was not sat at her desk, probably on a lunch break of her own.

“Well, it was very nice seeing you again, Natasha.” Steve grinned, giving another handshake, which Natasha returned with a dazzling smile.

“Likewise, Steve.” She replied, “And it was a _pleasure_ to meet you, James.” She added, turning to Bucky, “Steve spoke very highly of you, and I can’t wait to see you in action on Monday. See you then!” And then she was walking down the hallway with more grace than a cat. Something about the way she moved; Natasha Romanoff didn’t do or say a single thing that she didn’t entirely mean to do or say. She said exactly what she meant, she did exactly what she intended, and she did it all with flawless execution and staggering grace.

And he had to admit, he got chills every time she said his name; no one called him James apart from her, but _god_ he loved how it sounded on her lips.

Steve grinned, “Your jaw dropped again,” He said, “And, uh, I’d suggest you think of your mom or something, because...” He glanced down at Bucky’s crotch and Bucky let out an embarrassed yelp, his hands flying to his groin and looking around nervously. Steve was laughing so hard he could barely breathe and Bucky let out an annoyed growl.

“I was just about to thank you for talking me up to her.” He glowered at his friend, who could barely stand from laughing so hard. “But never mind.”

“Hey, you’ll thank me one day, dude.” Steve shrugged, still grining too wide for Bucky’s taste, “I think she _likes_ you.”

“Really?” Bucky asked, and suddenly he didn’t feel so cross anymore. Steve smirked and nodded.

“Trust me,” He said, “I’ve seen her around a ton of guys who were way, _waaaay_ better looking than you. And smarter. And funnier... Wait, what was my point?” He grinned and Bucky shoved him,

“Never mind.” He muttered, but Steve nudged his shoulder and smiled,

“Hey, I’m serious, though,” He said, looking genuinely sincere now, “I’ve seen her around plenty of guys, you’re the first one she was _that_ nice to.”

At that, Bucky didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.


	4. Carmine Co-Stars (I Didn't Want This)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Filming for Natasha Romanoff's newest feature starts today! A plethora of famous actors have been spotted, including Hollywood's favourite guilty-pleasure-boy-toy, Anthony Stark, and the new Dynamic Duo of the silver screen: Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. With a cast so star-studded you might think it was the night sky, and the Scarlet Starlet behind the camera, people are already eagerly anticipating even the _tiniest_ pieces of information. Please give us _something_ to go on, Natasha! Just a title will do!

Two weeks later, their first day on set was very interesting.

One of the smaller parts of the film had gone to Anthony Stark, Hollywood’s favourite guilty-pleasure playboy and probably it’s most disgraced, and Steve looked a combination of overjoyed and gutted when he saw the guy on set, rehearsing his lines with Jarvis – his assistant-slash-PA-slash-handler – reading out the other parts. He wore sunglasses (probably more because he was permanently hungover than because he thought it made him look cool) all the time except when he was on camera, and when he was out of costume he favoured paint-stained jeans and black long-sleeved shirts. He also appeared to be a tinkerer, fiddling away with whatever he could sneak in or find on the set, until Jarvis told him to put it back “where and how you found it”.

Another part had gone to a rising star, Barbara “Bobbi” Morse, who was excellent at playing the aloof good-guys or the sultry bad-guys (not as good as Natasha, though, Bucky had to admit), but was actually really fun and warm off of the camera. According to the magazines, she had a complex on-off relationship with a fellow actor (who had not been cast for the film) called Lance Hunter.

But that was enough background. As filming was wrapping up for the day, Bucky compiled a list of what he’d learned so far:

The first thing he’d learned was that Natasha, as a director, did not use words to explain what she wanted to see on camera. Apparently (according to what Steve had read in an interview a while back) “words were not sufficient to portray what’s going on in someone’s mind. Least of all the mind of an artist”. In short, she didn’t _explain_ ; she marched right out onto the set and acted out sequences and scenes herself, sometimes even taking actors and positioning them like mannequins.

The second thing he learned was that Anthony Stark, despite the amount of time he got splattered across sidewalks (and as a result, magazine covers) and his _bad_ bad-boy rep was a pretty okay guy. He’d expected the guy to be a snobby little turd who wanted everything because he said so, but actually he was pretty fun to be around, just a bit of a snarky shit; like a kid brother. He was good for a laugh and was a pretty good actor when you got him to stop being sarcastic for five minutes (which was something Bucky was pretty sure only Natasha and Jarvis could do). A downside, though: don’t shake his hands, they were almost always covered in machine grease.

The third thing he learned was that Jarvis was _literally_ the most awesome guy ever. He was British intelligence personified and deadpanning incarnate, and it was a pretty amazing result. Bucky didn’t know whether to laugh, praise or run screaming.

The fourth thing he learned was that, whilst life on the set was fun and friendly, it was really hard work, and you were expected to give it your all in whatever you did if you expected to stick around for any length of time. Even Anthony, who was quite good at faking in difference, was clearly doing his best. He respected Natasha greatly, and that was enough to make him take things seriously for at least a little while.

The fifth thing he learned was probably the most important: whenever Natasha moved or positioned him (which was quite a lot, given he was the lead) he would hold his breath. His skin tingled every time and place her fingertips made contact, when she asked him to raise his chin or turn his shoulders slightly, and when she stood before him and acted out his lines so he could mirror her for a better idea, he was just _mesmerised_ by what he saw.

At lunch, he caught her with her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She was in a grubby white t-shirt and jeans, but she looked awesome. She was grubby because they were filming on an Old-Western-esque set, and there was dust everywhere. She didn’t look like a director or even a member of the crew, and he might have mistaken her for a trespasser if not for her signature hair colour, and her face when she turned to look at something above him.

The film was a little steampunk in some ways, because the fashion was old-timey but there was technology like lights and motorbikes and pistols (that was probably the only reason Natasha hadn’t reprimanded Anthony for having machine grease all over his hands; it probably added to his character). Natasha had explained that she’d had a very specific idea in mind for the dystopian world she’d dreamt up reading the script. He himself was in some sort of pirate-like overcoat, with a red bandana tied around his forehead and a prosthetic metal left arm that would be CG-ed in after shooting.

“Hey,” He said, smiling, because he considered them all friends now, and was pretty sure (according to what Steve had said) she would not snap at him for approaching her. She looked up and smiled at him,

“Hi, I was just going over some set changes and I’m thinking the—”

“Hey, whoa.” He grinned, raising his hands, “I’m probably not gonna understand a word of it, and I noticed you haven’t eaten since we got on set.”

Natasha shrugged, keeping her eyes fixed on the set plan in front of her, “Its fine, it’s only one.”

“Actually, it’s four-thirty.” He said blankly, and she looked up at that, genuinely surprised. “Everyone else had an hour’s lunch break at twelve, and as the director, you’re entitled to one, too. You should take it.”

Another shrug, “I’m not hungry. I’m used to not eating all day. When I was younger I...” She paused, “I did a lot of gymnastics and stuff, I learned to function on empty.”

He frowned at that, that didn’t sound very healthy. He wondered if there was a story there but he decided not to pry. “Well, at any rate, you should still eat. You _need_ to, you’re the director. We won’t know what to do if you’re in hospital from malnutrition.” He cracked a small smile; one that had gotten him _very_ far in life – both on and off the camera.

At that, Natasha smiled a little, and when he offered her a muffin he’d snagged from the buffet on the other side of the set, she thanked him and took it, eating without protest.

Around a muffin of his own, he asked, “So what’s with the acting on set?” And she smiled a little; possibly slightly embarrassed.

“Well...” She said after a long pause, “I’ve found that actions make it a lot easier for most people to understand you. I can never find the right words, so if I act it out, then people get a better idea of what I mean.”

“And positioning us like dolls?” He asked wryly. She rolled her eyes at that, but smiled,

“Yeah, sorry about that...” She muttered, and he almost had to restrain himself from saying _I wasn’t complaining, feel free to position me any way you like_. “But it’s just a lot easier if people have a visual aid. Plus...I guess I kind of miss acting now and then, it’s nice to do a little, even if it’s not getting filmed.”

“Hey, you could always write yourself in with a small part.” He suggested, and she laughed at that.

“Unlikely, with all the stuff that needs doing _off_ the camera, I’d never have the time.” She looked down at herself, “Besides I’m a mess. I’d look awful.”

Again, Bucky restrained himself, because _he_ didn’t think she looked awful at all. She looked gorgeous, as always, but somehow the grime smearing her cheeks where she’d wiped sweat from her brow, and the flyaway strands of hair from her knot made her look more hands on, and somehow even sexier than usual.

“I would beg to differ.” He told her, risking it a little. And, for the sake of not being inappropriate, he added, “And I think Hollywood would go wild to see you in a film again, even if you _did_ look awful.”

She laughed at that, and gave him a rare smile. Not to say that she didn’t smile often, but she didn’t smile like _that_ often. A warm, entirely genuine smile, when you’ve finished laughing but you’re happy. “You’re sweet.” She said, “Can’t wait for you to meet your love interest.”

“M-my what?” Bucky asked, blanking horribly. Love interest? There’d been no mention of _that_ in the script. "There was no love interest in the script.”

She grinned, “I know. I always leave out _one_ little thing, usually something that makes a surprise. With a bit of luck and some sectioning off, the first time you see her will be when you see her on camera.”

“Uh...why?” He asked blankly. He didn’t want a love interest, he didn’t _need_ a love interest. Frankly, with Natasha around, he wasn’t sure he’d be very good at one, either.

“A little romance, as long as it’s not the whole focus of the film, is the _key_ to character development.” She replied, “Their likes and dislikes, their limits for those they love, their morals, even, what sort of choices they would make in impossible situations. If you see a character around someone they love, you know _everything_ about them.” She smiled, “Actually, now that I mention... _her_ , I have a meeting with her tonight.” She glanced at her watch and swore, “Oh, crap, I’ve gotta go...” She began stuffing things into a rucksack covered in metal superhero badges (he’d seen it around earlier and honestly thought it had belonged to one of the camera crew. Now that thought made him cringe and he was glad he hadn’t said anything), she yanked the zips shut and clamped a Bluetooth earpiece over her ear, “See you tomorrow,” She called over her shoulder as she ran off, presumably to hail a taxi, “Thanks for the muffin, James.” And added, leaving Bucky feeling like he’d been rejected and set up on a blind date by his director.

“Hey, Buck, you ready to head home?” Steve suddenly materialised behind him. Bucky turned to him in a daze, like he couldn’t quite concentrate, and Bucky frowned.

“I...” He began, and shook his head as though he were recovering from being stunned – which in a way, he was. “Uh...yeah, yeah, my stuff’s all packed up.” He pointed to his own rucksack vaguely, before returning to gaze blankly at the hangar door where Natasha had sprinted out only moments ago.

“What’s up with _her?_ ” Steve asked blankly, handing Bucky his bag, “What did you _say_ to her?”

Bucky scowled at his friend, “Nothing.” He replied, “We just talked, and she’s late for a meeting. With the girl who’s gonna be playing my love interest.” He added, and Steve’s eyebrows raised,

“You didn’t mention that.” He said,

“I didn’t know it myself.” He replied, “She wants it to be a big surprise – I’m not even gonna see her or know who she is until she walks onto set for our first scene.”

Steve moved his head in an _oh, right_ motion, “Yeah, Romanoff tends to do that.” He admitted, “She says real surprise is the best thing ever if you can manage to capture it on camera.”

“Well there’s only one way to find out if that’s true.” Bucky conceded glumly, hefting his bag onto his shoulder with a gloomy aura. Steve frowned and put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder,

“Hey, are you alright?” He asked, concerned for his friend.

“I dunno.” He admitted, “I just... I know we weren’t going out – hell, I never even got round to thinking about _how_ I’d ask her out—” Okay that last part was a slight lie, “—but I just feel like she...”

“Like she dumped you.” Steve finished for him, “Because she’s given you a co-star.”

“Yeah, basically.” He replied with a sigh, and he shook his head, “Never mind. It’s stupid.” And he walked off out the door of the hangar where the set was slowly emptying of cast and crew, Steve trailing behind him, unsure of how to comfort the heartbreak of a relationship that had never been.


	5. Auburn Artiste (It's Just A Movie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Bucky Barnes finally meets his co-star on the set of Romanoff's newest film. The star's identity has been kept super-secret, so it looks like we'll have to wait until the promo art and trailers come out (boo!). Some people are hoping that the Scarlet Starlet will write herself a small part, as, with more rumours coming from the set, and as more time passes behind closed doors, people begin to wonder if the femme-fatale of the silver screen has found herself the subject of a little crush! _How cute!_

Three months into filming and Bucky was still feeling the backlash of Natasha’s unintentional rebuff which hadn’t even really been once to begin with.

But, for the sake of his professional career, he was ignoring his feelings as best he could. He made conversation with the other actors, he gave it his all on set, and he tried to keep his pulse down when Natasha positioned him on his marks.

It was, of course, impossible to avoid Natasha, given that she was the director and he was the lead actor. She talked to him every lunch break – mostly since, even though her remarks the first day had stung, he wanted to make sure she actually ate her lunch – and their conversations were always fun and light-hearted, which somehow made his pain even worse.

Because it wasn’t just that she was gorgeous (which she was, she _really_ was) it was that she was smart, and funny, and inspired and so set in her beliefs. Even if they didn’t agree on something or like the same things, they could still talk about it, they could talk about _anything_.

And it was like she was stabbing a knife into his chest without even realising it. He fully comprehended one night as he read the script over for the millionth time, that he didn’t just _like_ her. He’d fallen in love with her.

She approached him one day with a grin so wide he wondered what could possibly have made her so happy.

“Congratulations, Caden.” She grinned at him, and at once he understood. _Caden_ was the name of his character. That could only mean one thing, his love interest had arrived. He barely had time to say something (not that he knew _what_ to say) before she was dragging him off to makeup.

“Okay,” She was saying as they applied his wounds and scars (Caden had this one scar over his eye which not only meant it took a while, but that he had to have a milky-contact lens put in his left eye), “Her name’s _Shayera_ , you knew each other as kids. She was an even better fighter than you were, and proved herself strong in the Pits—” This fictional world had fighting pits where combatants fought to prove their worth, “—until she went missing and was presumed dead. Obviously, you were heartbroken. So now, for the first time, you’re discovering she’s still alive.”

“So I whisper her name to myself, run up to her, touch her face and kiss her?” He asked, just guessing because that was how these sorts of scenes went. Natasha grinned at him,

“Hug, actually, we’re saving a kiss for the finale. But not bad.” She replied with a smile, “And if it helps, think of something sad – it’s good to have a few tears in your eyes for this sort of thing.”

“Uh huh.” He muttered, as if the sting from the contact wasn’t already enough to make his eyes water. He thought he saw her smile die a little at his preoccupied, slightly harsh tone; but it was most likely slight distortion from the contact. In a few minutes he’d get used to it and the stinging would stop.

“Uh...okay.” She murmured, then pressed a finger to the Bluetooth earpiece she was wearing and said, “Clint, I need... _her_ on set. Yup, make-up and everything, let’s see if James Barnes is a one-take wonder.” She offered a wink, then walked off without a second glance in his direction, most likely focusing on the task at hand. He frowned for a moment as he looked at himself – no, at Caden. He didn’t look like himself with the green left sleeve that would become metal, the milky contact over his left eye, and the wax stick-on-scars that marred his face and throat – in the mirror.

She was the only one to call him James. _Literally_ the only one. Everyone else; Steve, the papers, they all called him _Bucky_. But Natasha had called him James right from the beginning, as if it were the only option. And the authority she exuded, even in a grubby t-shirt and paint-stained jeans, was so much that no one, not even Bucky himself, had bothered to correct it.

“ _Caden and Shayera, you’re needed on set._ ” Came a voice over the tannoy. To make things simpler, (and probably more mysterious) they were referred to as their characters over the speaker system. Bucky was led through an area that had been screen off so as to hide him and his co-star, who probably knew who she was, but maybe not, as Natasha had not revealed anything to the press so far.

He took his place on his mark, ready to tur at the sound of “his” name and whisper “ _Shayera_ ” in the most heart breaking voice he could manage. At the risk of sounding melancholic and vaguely whiney, he reckoned he could swing “heart breaking” no problem.

Anthony Stark, who was playing Jericho; the renegade, wise-cracking tech-genius who was Caden's 'sidekick' was stood facing him, and there was a cry of _action_ from above.

“You don’t get it, Caden.” Anthony snapped in the harsh voice of his character, “If we don’t stop them, the war is just going to get worse. How can the rebels expect to fight when their very _symbol_ won’t even step up to the fighting pits?”

“I’m not going back in there.” Bucky growled at Anthony, “ _Never_. Not after what they took from me. I won’t be humiliated in there. I’ll lead you into battle but I won’t touch the pits.”

“And why not?” Anthony demanded, “How can we expect to win supporters if we let the pits continue? We have to show them they don’t own us! That we’re not their playthings!”

“ _BUT WE ARE!_ ” Bucky roared at him, so much so that he even saw some of the camera crew recoil at his fury, and he bit down on a smug smirk, “That’s all we _ever_ are! They take us and train us and when it pleases them they send us out there to die! I spent _years_ living in that torture, murdering for my life when, not moments before, I’d broken bread with those same boys! You can do what you like, but I _will not_ return to the pits. _Ever_.”

“Caden...” Came a soft voice from behind him, “And here I thought _I_ was cut deeply...”

Bucky turned around slowly, and saw Yelena Belova standing before him.

Yelena Belova, acclaimed actress and another alumni of the Russian ballet scene. Beautiful, talented and graceful, she could have been Natasha's twin, if not for her colouring. She was blonde-haired and blue eyed, the classic beauty, and when paired with the grace she'd learned from ballet, the natural talent for dramatics that was simply just luck, she was easily a favourite of the cameras. Bucky would have been lying if he'd said he wasn't attracted to her, but now that eh was face to face with her, she looked almost a little empty; as though she went only skin deep.

But, for the sake of his career, he had to pretend like she was the most beautiful thing on earth – which was easy since Natasha was stood behind her, fumbling with her hands and watching the scene with a look that suggested, _please let this go without a hitch, please let this happen in one take, the surprise will be so much more real_... And he promised to himself that he would fulfill that promise. So he imagined that she and Yelena had swapped places, and that the girl in leather-and-metal armour, with a dirt-streaked face and hair pulled up into a messy ponytail was someone else entirely.

His eyes were already teary from his speech, and a succession of the most painful, sad things his mind could conjure up made them shine excellently in the camera. “Shayera?” He whispered, taking one step forwards, then stopping, not sure whether to approach.

“Yeah.” Yelena replied softly, an apologetic and pained smile on her face.

“I...I thought you were dead...” He muttered. Admittedly, this wasn’t scripted, but sometimes he just go so in character that it just _flowed_. He knew what Caden would say right now.

“I thought I was dead, too.” Yelena smiled a little, her mouth twitching as she cracked a small joke, but her eyes were heavy and sad with regret. “I’m so sorry.” She muttered, and at that moment they both knew it was exactly the right time, and they ran forwards and hugged each other tightly, tears streaming down their faces, his face buried in her neck as he held her so tightly it was as though she would fade into nonexistence if he let her go.

“C-cut.” Came a quavering voice, and Yelena let go of Bucky like she was dropping a sack of potatoes; it was so sudden he had to catch himself (which wasn’t ideal as it looked like he’d been relishing the hug, which was _not_ the case) to stop from falling over. Bucky looked up and realised that the command had been Natasha’s ( _duh_ , said the rational part of his brain, _she’s the director_ ). She looked genuinely moved, and walked up to Yelena with a huge grin on her face,

“You were _perfect_ , ‘Lena.” She told the blonde girl, some of her natural Russian accent leaking through as she said this. Yelena thanked her graciously and then walked off as if nothing had happened. Natasha then approached Bucky.

“Nice work out there, James.” She said, grinning with relief, “I see you’re not bad at improv.”

“I have a vivid imagination.” He replied with a cocky smile, “You just get into it, you start to know your characters, y'know?”

“Sometimes better than you know yourself...” She agreed in a murmur, but then looked up at him and smiled again, “Anyway, that’s a one-take wrap, so well done.” She patted him on the shoulder amiably,

“Great.” He replied, with a genuine smile, “Will we have any other scenes, out of interest? Like a kiss?”

“Oh...well...” She almost looked a little offended at the mention; maybe because she hadn’t quite planned them yet. Little did Bucky realise that she was jealous of his apparent eagerness to kiss Yelena. “It’ll be the last scene of the movie, so it’ll be the last thing we film. Unless there’s a child actor who has to sit in makeup for three hours or something, I like to film chronologically. It makes the story flow more, I think.”

“Agreed.” Bucky replied, smiling through the fact that he had to dread kissing Yelena for the next three months _at least_. He’d sensed her dislike after Natasha had called _cut_ , the irritation at working with a less-than-infamous co-star. Frankly the feeling was mutual. She wasn;t as grounded as her redheaded friend, nor as pretty or as interesting.

But Natasha wasn’t his co-star. Yelena was.

“Well,” Steve said that night as Bucky explained the whole thing to him, “At least you get to kiss _one_ hot Russian...?” He smiled weakly, but he knew it was a poor joke. He sighed and stood up from the sofa, and as he passed on his way to the fridge, he patted Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hang in there, Buck.” He said quietly, “I’m sure she’ll notice you eventually. Just give it time.”


	6. Rose Romance (We Could Be A Movie. We Could Be The Final Act)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Fans start getting extra hyped and filming starts to conclude on the Scarlet Starlet's latest feature, whose title has now been released as _The Pits_ and tells the story of a battle-hardened young man, his best friend, grudging ally and childhood love as they fight to free their post-apocalyptic world from the tyranny of the Law, which rules with an iron fist thanks to the Fighting Pits; a literal Hell on Earth. Starring Bucky Barnes, Yelena Belova, Anthony Stark and Steve Rogers, this star studded feature film is sure to impress when it finally hits the cinemas!

So life on the filmset of Bucky’s greatest project continued after that. Some days Yelena would come in for her scene (all in all she was a minor character) which usually involved a profound conversation that would be interspersed with shots of them talking to voice overs and flashbacks to their younger selves (played by completely different people) slashing their way (somewhat literally) through the fighting pits. Bucky woke up, he slipped into the skin of Caden, and then he slipped out again before he went to sleep. That was his life, and fir the most part, he loved it. Yelena aside, working on the set of a Romanoff film was a dream come true.

Until of course, it all went to shit.

* * *

“Oh, I will _kill_ that woman!” Natasha snapped, stomping onto the set with a phone in her hand and an expression so dark that _stormy_ didn’t even _begin_ to cover it. It was six months down the line and filming was nearly finished. Trust _now_ to be the time when things fell apart. Bucky felt his confidence in the film waver slightly, and he suddenly became very worried.

“Something go wrong?” Steve asked mildly, with such a straight-faced expression that Anthony looked impressed. Natasha turned on him with a glare that reminded them all of the fiery woman she could so easily become if the friendly mannerisms fell away, and Steve took a hasty step back.

“As a matter of _fact_ ,” She said with a tone like battery acid, “Something _did_. Yelena somehow _broke_ her _leg_.”

Now that was a problem.

Yelena’s character, Shayera, was a very action-orientated character, but those scenes they could easily do with the stunt double. But that was not the problem. They’d _done_ all those scenes ages ago; Natasha liked to film chronologically to help the story flow better. Shayera had just been rescued from the fighting pits by Bucky and Anthony, and the three of them had fought their ways out, guns blazing (both metaphorically and literally). All that was left was for Anthony’s character to confess love to his romantic interest, who was played by Bobbi, and for Caden and Shayera to share their big, dramatic kiss.

Which would not work without Yelena, because it was a close-up shot. None of the stunt doubles looked like her in a close-up; heck, most of them were a good few inches taller than her, and when she was standing next to Bucky, it would be obvious that it was a different actress.

Natasha let out an annoyed yell and put her fist through one of the prop windows (just as well the city was trashed from a battle anyway, no one would notice one more window).

“Well...” Said Clint, who had cameoed as another pit-fighter who gave his life to allow the three main characters to escape, “Couldn’t she just stand with a cast on and we, uh, CG it out? Or a close-shot?”

Natasha sighed and shook her head, anger mostly dissipated. Unfortunately, for authenticity she insisted real glass, not sugar glass, be used for the windows, and now there were several cuts on her knuckles. Not that she appeared to notice them.

“I asked her, and her doctors. She has to be off it _completely_ for at least a _month_. She’s in a wheelchair and everything; broke her femur clean in two.” There was a collective wince around the set, and Bucky saw Steve grimace. Natasha’s mouth twisted unpleasantly.

“So...we have to hire someone else to do all of Yelena’s scenes...” Anthony said glumly, and sighed, “It’ll take us _forever_ to get that knife trick again.” For the sake of cinematic class, Natasha had insisted Anthony throw a knife at Yelena, as his character had never met her before (Caden would eventually break up the fight that both parties would later insist they were winning), and Shayera was supposed to catch the blade with one hand, as though she was going to throw it. It was blunted, obviously, so a bruise was the worst thing to occur, but it had taken no less than 206 takes for Yelena to A) catch the knife, B) do so without flinching and C) for no one off-set to cheer and go _finally_ when those first two things were accomplished.

“Not a chance.” Bobbi exclaimed, “It’ll take _months_ to re-shoot everything!”

“Well, I don’t know what else we can _do_...” Natasha exclaimed, “Unless we find someone who looks just like her. I mean, _maybe_ we could CG a face onto an actor, but they’d still need the same build, rough facial structure, _height_...” She sighed and but a hand to her temple.

“Well... until we figure that one out, let’s just... film the rest.” She said, “Maybe we’ll write in a death scene; just Caden yelling _Shayera_ and a building collapsing. Cue a funeral and we’re golden. Well... silver.” She shrugged and walked off to her office to think up some other idea.

There was a long, solemn pause. Everyone knew how much Natasha cared for her film, and as they had come to bring it to life, they, too, had come to care for it. Now one of the most key scenes was reduced to an impossibility.

Bucky wanted to say something, but he didn’t know how he could help. He wasn’t Yelena, he wasn’t someone who had a solution. And yet, he walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder, and the words came as if from nowhere.

“Don’t sweat it.” He said, “I haven’t even seen the finished product with the CGI, but I _know_ this film is gonna be good no matter what, with our without the kiss at the end.”

Natasha sighed, but it didn’t sound irritated. To his immense surprise, she raised a hand and covered his with it, as if holding it to her shoulder; an anchor. Her head was bowed as she replied.

“I don’t know. I had such a clear vision of what I wanted; a kiss in front of the sunset, then a trio; you Steve and Yelena, riding off into the sunset to take down the rest of the fighting pits around the rest of the world.” Another sigh, “I just... God, this sounds so juvenile, but... I wanted it to be perfect.”

He didn’t think that was juvenile at all; this movie was one of her biggest and most important features ever.

“It _will_ be.” He insisted, “You’re an amazing writer, Natasha, and an even better director. With a kiss or with a solemn memorial, everyone’s going to love it because you pour your heart and your soul into all you do. You couldn’t go wrong if you tried.” He chanced a grin, and at that moment Natasha turned to see it, and she smiled back, still holding his hand, even though she’d moved it from her shoulder.

“Thanks.” She murmured, clearly feeling better. She laughed a little, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” It was true; not only had he made sure she ate every day, but several times he’d stayed behind to make sure she got home before midnight, and now he was being her general cheerleading team.

“I should be paying you extra.” She joked quietly; they didn’t need to talk loudly when it was just the two of the off to the side. “You’ve practically been my PA, too.” She paused, “Seriously, though, thanks a lot, James.” He grinned at that. Even now, she was still the only one to call him that. “You’re a good friend.”

In the half light, he could almost see a little Shayera in her; like she had been inspired a little bit by herself. Both she and Yelena were Russian, with high cheekbones and large, dark eyes. With contacts and a blonde wig, he almost wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

Wait...

“You know...” Bucky murmured, “I think I might have just solved your problem.”

* * *

“Okay...” Clint was behind the camera with a backwards baseball cap on his head. It had been a gag gift he himself had given to Natasha when she’d directed her first film, and had _Scarlet Starlet_ embroidered in blood-red cursive over the black, blocky lettering of _Director_. She cherished it, though she’d never admit it, but of course she couldn’t wear it right now. Unlike Clint’s ring, which he concealed under a glove or wore on a chain whilst filming (assuming he wasn’t cameoing as a married man), it could not be hidden, nor explained into a storyline.

“And... _action_.” He muttered, and there was the _snap_ of a take being started.

Suddenly Caden took over and Bucky ceased to exist. He was a war hardened warrior, having just battled his way out of the fighting pits for the woman he loved, with his grudging ally, whilst his best friend had caused the distraction that had ultimately saved them, and a brave stranger had died to give them enough time to make it out. Caden had never come so easily before, never so fully, and it was like he _was_ this character, living and breathing and real.

“Oh my god...” Anthony muttered, suddenly gone, replaced instead by Jericho, who was looking at Bobbi with heart-wrenching relief. There were rushed steps, outstretched arms and they hugged each other, glad to see one another alive. There was a long pause whilst Hicks (Steve) and Caden (Bucky) stood by and watched with smiles on their faces.

“I...” He said weakly into her hair, “You’re alive. Thank God...”

They stayed in each other’s arms for a very long time. Bucky found that no acting was required when it came to happy, tearful gazes. When the broke apart, Jericho was teary-eyed. He looked to Caden.

“I guess this is where we say goodbye.” He said, extending a grudging-but-good-natured hand, “And I’ll admit, you weren’t as much of a bastard as I thought you’d be.”

“Back atcha.” Caden smiled, “You... keep an eye out for the other Pits, we have to get rid of them all if we’re gonna succeed.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna be enforcing their Laws anymore.” Jericho promised, referring to the rules that prevented rebellion, tampering with the Pits, and virtually all freedom.

“I have no worry of that.” Caden smiled, “See you round, Rico.”

“See you round, Fighters.” He replied with a grin, using the name that Caden and Hicks had once taken offence to; a slur that reduced them from human beings to mindless pieces of meat to be hacked apart. But they no longer minded. Then Jericho and his reunited love turned and walked back to Valentine, one of the few cities that lived outside the totalitarian society of the Law, outside of the Cities, and the Pits. One of the few places where they could be safe.

Hicks turned to Caden, “So... you were always the leader, where do we go from here?” He asked, eyebrows raised mildly. This was an easy role for Steve. Mild-mannered, but fierce when it was needed. He was hardly even acting.

“Isn’t it obvious? We go to Capital.” Came a voice, but it wasn’t Caden’s. Both of the Fighters turned to see Shayera, walking towards them, wounded but alive.

“Shayera...” Caden breathed, hardly believing his eyes. He thought she’d died when the Pit had collapsed, died like so many of the other Fighters, like the numerous others who had been trapped in its blood-stained, unforgiving walls for years. But she hadn’t.

Shayera smiled weakly, “It’ll take a lot more than a building falling down to get rid of me.” She told him, “And as if I’d leave all the fun to you two.”

Hicks took a step back, smiling for his friend, to allow them some privacy. Shayera stepped forwards slightly, and Caden matched this movement. He raised a hand and touched her face lightly. Shayera closed her eyes and leant into it; she was crying silently.

“I was so worried...” Caden murmured, “I thought... I thought I’d never see you again. I... I thought you were...” He gulped and shook his head; he couldn’t bring himself to finish that sentence.

“But I wasn’t.” She said quietly, opening her eyes and holding his hand to her cheek, “I promised that we’d get out of it together. And we did... kinda.” She smiled a little and shrugged, and he laughed softly.

“Kinda.” He agreed, “I just... For a moment I thought you really were... _gone_. And...” He shook his head again. The anger that had consumed him; the scream of fury and grief that had sent him into a murderous rage. All from the idea that she had lost her life under those bricks. “And I couldn’t bear the idea that I was alone.”

“You have Hicks.” She suggested quietly,

“You know that’s not what I mean.” He murmured in reply,

“Then... what _do_ you mean?” She asked coyly, but she knew what he meant, they both did. She just wanted to hear it from him.

“Well...” He breathed, and he cupped her hand under her neck, tilted her head up, and brought her lips to his.

Now, Bucky had kissed actresses before. Hell, he’d kissed _actors_ before. It was just part of the job, and he knew _how_ to stage kiss. Opened mouth, very slow and careful, no tongue. Soft, romantic, and, if it was a love scene, it turned into something more. But this wasn’t, so he held himself back.

Or, he _tried_ to. But some part of him thought _yeah this is a real kiss_ and a stage kiss turned into something a little more... European. Shayera, or should he say, _Natasha_ , froze up for the briefest of moments, but soon melted into it and responded with vigour, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down. He stopped himself from fisting his hands in her hair – because she was wearing a wig that _would_ come off if he did, and it didn’t feel particularly nice either. His hands found her waist, and for a moment nothing existed but them. Not the camera, not the set, not even Caden. It was just him and her.

And _god_ , he loved it.

Eventually they broke apart, but only because they both remembered they were being filmed and this had to stay PG-13 (ish; it might eventually get pushed up to 15) and that there was more to the scene.

They were stood so that they were more or less in full-body-contact from the hips down, pushed against each other, their heads bowed so their foreheads were touching.

“Took you long enough.” She muttered, once more in the guise of Shayera. She kissed him lightly on the lip again and pulled apart. She turned to the two others; Hicks and Caden, half-flushing but looking powerful and deadly and like a Fighter all the same.

“Alright.” She smiled; strong and fierce, “Let’s go destroy the Fighting Pits.”

There was a moment where Bucky could almost imagine the swelling music, and the panning shot of the three of them facing first each other, then turning away to face the sunset, and then a smash-cut to black.

“ _Cut!_ ” Came Clint’s voice, dragging them from the illusion and the worlds that surrounded them. He stepped forwards onto the set, grinning at the three of them. Natasha pulled off her blonde wig and snatched the cap off Clint’s head.

“Alright, people.” She grinned, “Send this off to CG. That’s a wrap.”


	7. Red Carpet (Make Way For the Stars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: _The Pits_ finally hits cinemas in the premiere this week! Its star-studded cast are sure to be swamped on their way to the premiere, being asked for tidbits on what's happening, and if the rumours of the Scarlet Starlet herself having a small role are true. Questions are flying as the excitement comes to a boil, the wait is almost over!

It was a matter of waiting after that. The film was sent off for the special effects to be added, Bucky recorded his voice for the narration at the start of the film, and then it was just a waiting game.

Unfortunately for him.

He couldn’t get the kiss out of his head. It plagued him night and day – well, was plague really the world when he _liked_ the thoughts? He wasn’t sure, but the resided constantly at the forefront of his mind.

At first he’d been humiliated for letting his professionalism drop; he’d expected Natasha to shove him away as soon as Clint yelled cut and scream that she’d fire him if they weren’t on a deadline – maybe throw a punch or two. When she hadn’t, he’d been relieved but confused. Then he’d been kind of proud. Steve had told him about first his good acting, and the his apparently amazing kissing, given that he’d full-on _Frenched_ the Starlet Scarlet and had lived to tell the tale. He’d apparently kissed her so well that she’d actually kissed him _back_. And _liked it_.

And then he’d been worried. Because what did it all _mean?_ Did she liked him? Or was he just a cute something to warm her up for one night? ––Well, to be perfectly frank he _was_ a cute something to warm her at night regardless, but was he something _more?_ He wasn’t sure, and he needed to know, because at the same time he wasn’t sure himself.

“Dude, if you’re so worried, _ask her out_.” Steve told them one evening a few months later; sick and tired of Bucky’s worrying – but in an affectionate, brotherly sort of way. “She obviously _likes_ you.”

“Yeah, but _how much_?” Bucky insisted, coming out of his bedroom and into the living room, holding a tie forlornly in his hand, “Hey, can you help me with this? I never learned how the tie the damn things.” Steve rolled his eyes and made a _tsk_ sound, but he took the tie anyway and looped it around Bucky’s neck, whilst he stood there and tried to look taller. At 6’2”, Steve was five inches taller than Bucky, and it was a little humiliating at times like this, because _he_ was the older of the two by just over a year.

“Grown man can’t tie his own tie.” Muttered Steve under his breath, and Bucky scowled,

“I’m starting to wish I’d never gotten involved in that fight.” He said crossly. He was, of course, referring to how they’d met, when Bucky (who, back then, had been the larger and the strong of the two – huh, how times change) had placed himself squarely between a seven-year-old Steve and a nine-year-old punk who’d confused Steve for a punching bag. At the time Bucky had been eight, but entirely unfazed by the bully. He and Steve had been best friends ever since.

But Steve only laughed. “Oh, please. Any excuse to hit another kid.”

“You make me sound like I was a bully.”

“No, you weren’t. You just liked to hit stuff.” Steve corrected him, finishing off the tie, “There, all done. But I swear to god, next time, just go like you’re already drunk and leave it undone, or _learn to tie it yourself_. I’m not your mom.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Bucky muttered under his breath. Steve scowled,

“I heard that.”

They were, of course, getting ready for the premiere of _The Pits_ , which was a black-tie affair. Bucky had never learned to tie a tie because he’d never had cause. He was known for turning up to premieres with a mostly-but-not-fully-buttoned shirt and no tie to speak of, but he was making an effort with this one, because this was a Romanoff film, and he wanted to make a good impression.

He knew how to tie a normal tie, though. But that made him look like a seventh grader at a dance or one of the Blues Brothers, neither of which a look he was eager to copy. So he’d opted for a bow tie without realising he had no idea how to tie one. And he felt one that just Velcro-ed around his neck was a little... unprofessional.

So with short, combed back hair, a black suit and a bow tie, he climbed into the limo that had been sent to his and Steve’s apartment. Steve could look good in anything; he had the colouring of an angel and the build of a fireman, and honestly, Bucky felt drab in comparison. The guy was wearing _exactly the same thing_ as he was and looked frankly a million times better.

He suddenly felt a wave of jealousy towards Steve. He could _easily_ have Natasha Romanoff, or any other woman for that matter, no matter the competition. And if Natasha liked _him_ , then surely she’d absolutely adore Steve. The guy could turn up in hobo clothes and make them look _attractively rumpled_ like he’d just gotten dressed after they’d spent the night on the floor of your bedroom. When Bucky wore raggedy, casual clothes he looked like a junkie.

“Uh, Buck, are you okay?” Steve was looking at him strangely, “You look like you’re trying to swallow a walnut.”

“Wha—huh?” Bucky was drawn out of his thoughts, “Uh... Yea-yeah, I’m fine. Just... it’s nothing, just deep in thought.” He cracked a smile and suddenly felt guilty. Steve was his best friend. It wasn’t his fault that he was good looking. Hell, when they’d been teenagers, Bucky had been the good-looking one of the two. Then Steve had hit his growth spurt at seventeen and, well. _Ta-dah_.

But Steve would never do anything to hurt him intentionally. Besides, he hadn’t shown any interest in Natasha beyond being her friend, and from all the times he’d seen them interact, they were good friends, but good friends _only_.

* * *

The entire area was crowded with fans, and the wave of screaming hit Bucky like a ton of bricks when he got out of the limo, Steve in hot pursuit. There was a long, winding path to the front of the cinema where the premiere would play, one side backed by boards of all the logos of the companies that sponsored Avengers Studios, the others flocked by fans of all ages, brandishing signs and begging for autographs.

“Bucky Barnes! Over here!” Bucky turned to see a reported with a camera, the bulb as big as his own head. Easily he slipped into a smile and he and Steve put their hands on each other’s shoulders with friendly grins. These sorts of things were always easier for both of the when the other was there. They were one another’s rocks in the ever-changing tide of paparazzi and fans.

They made their way down the long red carpet, signing autographs, posing for pictures, and sharing brief conversations with new reporters. Eventually they encountered the main part of the carpet where everyone else had flocked, and there she was.

Standing beside Yelena, whose leg had healed enough for her to be able to walk on crutches, who was wearing a shimmering, backless blue dress, was Natasha.

She looked stunning. Since filming had ended her long, red curls had been cut so they bobbed level with her jawline, styled so they looked perfectly casual and natural. They sparkled with some kind of glittery hairspray, and her make-up was flawless; blood red lipstick, smouldering eye-shadow, porcelain cheeks. She wore a long, cranberry-red dress with a slit up to the knee. It had a Chinese-style collar and no sleeves. When she turned, he saw it was backless, revealing her to the small of her back. She looked gorgeous.

“Dude, stop drooling.” Steve muttered in his ear, and Bucky realised his mouth was hanging open slightly. He shut it quickly, hoping the cameras had been too distracted by the others to get a shot.

She turned and caught sight of Steve and Bucky, and waved over to them, “Over here!” She called, and they obliged. They posed for a group photo, with her in the middle, and it was sure to make the front page the next day. Bucky suddenly found himself hoping desperately that she couldn’t tell he’d put lifts in his shoes, only so he’d look less tiny when next to Steve.

Yelena came over and the two of them posed for a picture because they were the romantic couple of the film. She looked lovely, too; her long blonde curls piled high atop her head. Anthony and Bobbi were doing likewise, and Natasha got plenty of shots with everyone, because she was the director. When the reporters finally realised the literal star of the show had arrived, she snuck towards the fans and started signing autographs, sharing quick conversations and leaning in to take selfies with individual fans who’d managed to fight her ways to the front. Bucky couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scowl when one _particularly_ good-looking fan got the shock of his life when she turned her head to the side at the last moment and took a picture of her kissing him on the cheek. He eventually chose laughter, because he was at the premiere, and that guy’s expression _was_ pretty damn funny.

Steve was a natural in front of the cameras. The shy guy who had trouble talking to girls on set vanished to become this smiling male-model as thought the world revolved around him, and he knew it. Like slipping into the guise of Hicks, only this was an act only Steve’s closest friends knew was an act.

Clint was there, too, obviously, because he was Natasha’s friend and also had a small cameo role. He looked good in a suit and skinny-tie, but he _did_ look like a Blues Brother. But he was stood beside Natasha like a rock of her own; the Steve to her Bucky. He had his arm around her shoulders like a friend or an older brother. This and the ring on his finger was the only reason Bucky didn’t feel any jealousy.

 _Cut it out_ , he told himself, _one kiss on set doesn’t make her your girlfriend. It doesn’t make her anything._ But of course, tell that to his heart. He watched her and he felt the same dull ache he’d felt for months. The pain of the unknown.

But he swallowed it down, because this was actually a dream come true. He was on the red carpet for a film that was going to _smash_ the box-office, and he was the star. It was a film directed by his idol, his best friend was his co-star, and he was getting a _very_ comfortable payoff.

Yeah, this was a pretty awesome evening, girls aside. He put on his most winning smile, which was not nearly as forced as he thought it’d be, leant in across the bar and inserted himself into the idea of a fan’s selfie, making them scream delightedly into his ear.

* * *

Everyone had known that the film would be awesome. But with the CG and music score added, it was _incredible_. It was pure gold, every second of it. Bucky couldn’t really see himself as Caden; Caden was another person, just like Hicks, Jericho and... and Shayera.

Yelena was an incredible actress, and she played her part well; she was a battle-hardened Fighter in the Pits, and she’d fought savagely for everything she had. As for the finale... well, Bucky almost made _himself_ cry with the strangled yell at the Pit Arena crumbled to rubble, killing Clint’s character, god knows how many other Fighters and guards, and, as far as Caden was concerned in that moment, Shayera.

And when she appeared behind him, bruised and bloody and broken but _smiling_ and _alive_ , he could almost believe that the love on her face was real. The CG team had done an excellent job; pasting Yelena’s face onto Natasha’s. She looked exactly herself when she leant in, asking what he meant, and he showed her.

The kiss... well, it looked real, _very_ real. And for an obvious reason, though only those who had been on set knew it. Then swelling music as the three of them turned to face the sunset; three powerful and dark silhouettes against the burning orange of the sun. And then a smash cut to black, with the words _Caden and the Rebels will return_. Then roll credits.

Steve turned to Bucky immediately, “ _Dude_.” Was all he said, but Bucky turned to him and grinned,

“I know...” He agreed, slightly awestruck (was that vain) by what he’d just seen. Yelena from the row in front turned around with a self-satisfied smile.

“I think we did quite well.” She told them, “Who did you get to fill in for me? Natalia—” That was her nickname for Natasha; Bucky had to admit he kind of liked it, “—won’t tell me.”

“Oh, it’s not important.” Steve said airily, “But your scenes – y’know, when they were _yours_ – you’re an amazing actress, Yelena.” And it was true; she made a very convincing badass. That said, he couldn’t say much for her off of a camera. Yelena giggled at that and smiled hugely. Bucky’s eyes widened. _No **way**..._ But for now he held his tongue.

“Agreed.” Bucky said, filling the silence before anything became too obvious, “Very convincing performance.” Yelena smiled and nodded, as though accepting the complement, then stood up and left without thanking him or returning it.

Outside of the theatre, through the winding red-carpet-road lined by fans and reporters, Natasha sought Bucky out almost immediately. It was custom for the main actors to go out for a big party afterwards, allow the reporters some proper time to talk to them, like a ball. And, for some reason, she insisted that _she_ was the girl on his arm.

“I’m the director and you’re the star.” She told him, “It’s only logical.” Of course, he wasn’t complaining in the slightest.

“You know,” He said lightly, “The girl who filled in for Yelena... she was _very_ talented.”

“She was.” Natasha agreed with a smirk, “Anyway, I’ll see you boys at The Asgard?” That was the name for the large hall where all the important parties were held, and the venue for the post-premiere-party (try saying that five times fast).

“We’ll be right behind you.” Grinned Steve, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and steering him towards their car. Whilst they walked, he muttered in Bucky’s ear, “If you say a word about Yelena I will tell Natasha _everything_.” And Bucky had to bite down on a laugh.

“My lips are sealed.” He replied, and Steve snorted,

“Yeah, about as much as they were on set, I’m sure.” And Bucky swore at him,

“Oh, _that_ was below the belt.” He grumbled, chasing after his friend to their ride, not caring if the reporters caught them playing around like a pair of nine-year-olds.


	8. Cerise Cell-Number (After Party Antics)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Alas, the after-party is _tres exclusive_ and not all of us have invitations, so we fans wait excitely for the goods on all the happenings at The Asgard last night! All we can say for now: it seems Anthony Stark, Hollywood's favourite guilty-pleasure bad-boy, has finally gotten himself under control - has a certain red-headed reporter by the name of Pepper Potts caught Stark's eye as we were speculating before? Are the rumours about his fellow actress Bobbi Morse, true? Is she getting back together with her old flame, Lance Hunter? Hopefully tomorrow's papers will have the answers!!

The Asgard was possibly the grandest building in the city. Even more so than the Avengers’ Studios Tower in the middle of it. The Asgard was a large (like, _huge_ ) manor house that had been passed through generation after generation of the Odinson family, and currently rested in the hands of Thor, a tall, loud, unfamiliar-with-American-custom party animal. He’d “rented it out” to the Studios to be used in filming or grand events when he himself had moved back to his home country of Norway.

Thor had spent almost the entire last decade in Norway; after his father had died, he had gone back there to reconnect with his Scandinavian roots and make amends with his estranged brother (the papers had covered the story very thoroughly) and help his widowed mother get back on her feet. Sadly, his mother had passed away three years later, but when Steve and Bucky saw him standing in the manor’s foyer, waiting to receive Natasha and the stars of the cast, he seemed jovial and well-adjusted.

“Tony!” He boomed as soon as Anthony Stark swaggered through the doors, he strode over and gave the guy a massive hug. Judging from Anthony’s expression, Bucky deduced that several of his vertebrae had been cracked in the process.

“Thor!” He grinned weakly, trying to hide a wince, “I see you’re – _ow_ – back in the US. How was Norway?”

The tall, blonde man grinned – Bucky thought how it was rather impressive the guy could still look masculine when his hair was as long as Natasha’s. “The usual.” He answered, “Cold, dark and completely wonderful.” He grinned widely “But it’s nice to be back among friends.” He cast his gaze around the room and saw Natasha, immediately sweeping _her_ up into a hug as tight as Anthony’s, only she seemed slightly less broken afterwards. Bucky marvelled at how likeable Thor must be if he could do _that_ to the Scarlet Starlet and still be able to walk afterwards.

He suddenly felt another jolt of envy as he wondered if maybe Thor was her boyfriend – maybe an old love rekindled upon his return to the country. He was certainly good looking enough. But Bucky pushed that abruptly aside, because he was _determined_ to enjoy tonight fully, regardless of any confusing are-they, aren’t-they drama. Time enough to deal with that later.

Thor led them through into the main ballroom, adjusting the velvet ropes that cordoned off areas as they walked, because god knows paparazzi were nosey, explaining that he was now in the US to stay for the foreseeable future.

“I have all this space at my disposal, and I have to admit, California is my home away from home.” He was saying, “And what better way to begin my life here than by hosting a post-premiere-party of the Starlet Scarlet?”

“Try saying _that_ five times fast.” Bucky heard Anthony mutter under his breath, and he suddenly found himself trying to do just that in a hushed whisper. When Steve gave him a half-amused look, he stopped.

They all got shown around the large (and annoyingly awesome) manor in a bit of a rush, because the paparazzi was not too far behind them. Soon the large ballroom was alive with chatter and gentle music, the clinks of champagne glasses and the occasional sight of a man or woman in a white tail-coat and matching bowtie.

Bucky picked up a tiny pie from a passing waiter and frowned, turning to Steve. For the moment they were both (blissfully) not being swamped by cameras. “Dude, I told you we should’ve gotten a pizza before the premiere.” He held up the pie, “I am _not_ gonna make it through the night on miniaturised food.”

Steve shrugged, taking three from another waiter as she glided by, “I dunno, if you eat fifteen, it’s about the same.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and ate the quiche. “Yeah, _that’ll_ look normal, two Hollywood stars grabbing armfuls of tiny pies.”

“They’re called quiches.” Came a voice, and they both turned to see Natasha standin behind them, smiling, “And if it makes you feel any better, I do the same – the trick is to make the rounds, make every waiter think you’re only taking one or two every ten minutes.”

Steve nodded approvingly, “Thanks, Nat, I’m gonna test that theory.” He immediately wandered off and began stalking one of the waiters like a well-dressed shark, but Bucky had a feeling that that was _not_ his primary reason for walking off and leaving him alone with Natasha.

She smiled at him, almost making him blush, “So how’re you liking the Asgard?” She asked him, and he nodded approvingly,

“It’s very nice.” He replied, “You have friends in high places.” He grabbed two buiscuit-like things from a passing waiter’s tray and handed one to Natasha. She took it with a murmur of thanks and nibbled on it absently.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna be ordering a takeaway the second I get home.” She said, “I usually get something before premieres, but—”

“Let me guess, you were too busy perfecting the last details?” He cut across with a smirk and a dry tone of voice. Natasha smiled at him,

“Something like that,” She admitted. There was another period of silence, and they both cast their gazes around the room, secretly looking for another topic of conversation.

“It’s nice to see that the press aren’t swarming you for once.” She said after a moment. Bucky almost choked on his champagne,

“Swarming _me?_ ” He asked, “You’re the Scarlet Starlet! The director!” Natasha shrugged as if to say _perhaps_ , but then continued;

“But you’re the star of what will hopefully be a successful movie that will lead into a successful franchise.” She pointed out, “If all goes well, Caden and the Rebels _will_ return.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.” He said, “ _The Pits_ was the most fun I’ve had on a film set since—” he stopped himself then, because he doubted mentioning the dozens of showgirls he’d slept with on that war film would impress Natasha – or indeed keep her wanting to talk to him. “—since, uh, _ever_.” he finished, slightly lamely.

Natasha nodded, smiling as if to say she knew that had not been his original end to that sentence, but continued nonetheless. “The press are usually a little less oppressive at the post-premiere-parties, they’re usually just here for the food and conversation, to be honest.”

“Well that makes two of us.” Bucky shrugged, “Though I admit, the food’s a bit of a disappointment.” He added, looking down at a small quiche he’d plucked off a passing tray.

Natasha smiled up at him. It wasn’t exactly _shy_ , but more a _coy_ smile. “And the conversation?” She asked delicately. He gave her the half-smirk that he knew drove girls crazy. It seemed that the Scarlet Starlet was no exception to this rule.

“Absolutely _dazzling_.” He replied smoothly. Natasha smirked up at him,

“Glad to hear it.” She said, and Buck was reminded of their first conversation, of how she had been the literal verbal incarnation of sex, as she handed him a small slip of paper.

She gave him a flirty wink as she turned away, “Hopefully I’ll be seeing you around, James.” And she walked off. Bucky wondered if she was putting more sway into her hips than usual, and if she’d made his name sound even sexier than it normally was – or if he was just getting incredibly frustrated in the teenaged-boy sense.

Steve chose, at that moment, to reappear, and Bucky could tell that he had literally stuffed his pockets with the mini-foods. He always ate when he got nervous, and no doubt female reporters and actresses (maybe the occasional actor, that had happened to both of them a few times) had been coming onto him left, right and center.

“So, how’d it go?” He asked, putting one hand on Bucky’s shoulder and the other into his jacket pocket, pulling out another quiche. Bucky turned to him with a dazed grin,

“One more word and I might’ve come in my pants like a teenager.” He said flatly, remembering her smouldering eyes, ruby smirk and the slow honey-drizzle of his name on her lips. Steve grimaced slightly, though, and took his hands off Bucky as though having suddenly discovered he was a nuclear bomb.

“Uh... great.” He grimaced, wiping his hand on his jacket, making Bucky laugh. “Anyway, uh, what’cha got there?” Digging his hand into his pocket and pulling out mini sausages, he pointed with his other hand to the slip of paper in Bucky’s hand.

“I dunno, business card?” he suggested, and turned it over. There was a string of numbers written on it in delicate handwriting. Steve looked at Bucky with a huge grin on his face.

“Buck,” He said with a massive smile, “That is _not_ a business number.”


	9. Gingerly Gingerly (How Do You Ask Out A Starlet?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Natasha Romanoff's new hit _The Pits_ comes to public cinemas this weekend. With numerous positive reviews from a wide range of critics, there are bated breaths all over the country. No one can wait for Saturday and every cinema is sure to be packed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not forgotten, lovelies! But I have exams and 2 other fics in the works so its slow going. Sorry its short, but it's gonna get interesting very soon!

The next morning, Bucky came out of his room feeling very, _very_ hungover. The lights made his vision swim and he was pretty sure that whatever the contents of his stomach, they would not be there for much longer. But, to his credit, he had relatively complete memories of the previous night, and even with his dry throat and queasy stomach, he found himself grinning as he exited his room to find Steve on the couch like an upturned turtle, groaning loudly.

"Morning...?" Bucky said carefully. He was answered only by another groan that sounded vaguely like _never again_ , which was merely Steve's usual reaction to hangovers. He decided not to press the matter; Steve needed to drink a lot to get remotely drunk, and his hangovers were almost as bad for Bucky as his own were. For all his old-fashioned manners and decorum, a hungover Steve was a bit of a dick.

As he rummaged around for aspirin, he remembered what had happened the previous night, how Natasha had given him her number. Had he dreamed that? No, there it was, pinned to the fridge with a magnet like he was twelve: Natasha's mobile number. He almost dropped his glass in surprise. He _hadn't_ been imagining it. Natasha Romanoff, the Scarlet Starlet, _liked_ him. He felt heat rise to his face at the prospect of kissing her again. The thought was dashed by another loud whine from his hungover roommate.

Sighing, he ducked into the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen peas. Neither of them liked peas, frozen or otherwise, but peas were much more comfortable than large chunks of ice when it came to sore heads. He wrapped the bag in a tea towel, stalked over to the couch, and dropped them on Steve’s face, which was met with an appreciative groan as Steve’s hands came up to press the bag to his face. Bucky smiled; the peas would, if nothing else, muffle Steve’s pained groaning, broken up by verbal abuse of mini-quiches.

* * *

The majority of the day was spent in careful silence, because Bucky had a killer headache of his own, and he was right in that the contents of his stomach didn’t remain there for very long (he spent most of the late morning vomiting his guts up, to be honest). Plus, with Steve wincing like he got a papercut every time he heard so much as a pin drop, it was silently agreed that as little movement and noise as possible would be for the best. By two in the afternoon, both of them were lying on a couch, a bag of frozen peas against their aching foreheads, groaning at each other like beached whales.

“Hey...” Steve eventually whispered from underneath his peas. Bucky grunted to show he was listening, “Are you gonna call Nat?”

“Not now.” Bucky replied in a groan, “When I can... listen to a dialling tone... without peas...” Just then the phone rang, and never before had the song _Call Me Maybe_ been met with so much hissing and profanity. Steve threw his peas at the receiver. It hit the phone and both it and the receiver fell to the floor, but it was still ringing. As though agonised, Steve rolled off the sofa and crawled over to the receiver, flopped onto his back and grabbed the phone. He pressed the answer button, then the speaker button, then dropped the receiver, saying, “Someone had better be dying, or _you_ will be.”

“ _Well that’s a fine way to say hello to your director_.” Game a mildly annoyed voice, which Bucky recognised at once as Nat’s, he let out a small yelp, luckily not loud enough to be picked up by the phone, and froze visibly. He suddenly felt a lot less hungover.

“I’m-not-here.” He hissed to Steve, who grunted to show he’d heard.

“ _What?_ ” Natasha heard the grunt too. Steve, despite his semi-drunken state, was smooth as silk.

“I said hello.” He told her in a similar-sounding grunting.

“ _Rude._ ” She said, feigning offence, “ _Now if you’re quite finished, I have to run by some interview times for the next few weeks—_ ”

“Nat, _please_ ,” Steve begged, “I am _very_ tired and _very_ hungover and I am lying on the floor of my living room like a sack of potatoes.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, “ _Why are you on the floor?_ ”

“I threw a bag of peas at the phone.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“It was ringing. I have a headache.” He groaned at her. This seemed to be adequate enough an explanation, she didn’t question about the bag of peas. Perhaps she knew it was the system in Steve and Bucky’s apartment, or maybe she just already thought they were nuts.

“ _Alright, then, you big baby._ ” Natasha sounded more amused than annoyed, “ _Call me when you’re back to your super-star self, but don’t go outside. You two have a reputation to maintain and I won’t let you mar it by staggering around the city like a pair of winos. At least, not while you’re **my** actors._ ”

“Actor _s_?” Steve questioned the plural. They both imagined Natasha raising a shrewd eyebrow.

“ _You think I can’t tell when there’s someone else in a room, Rogers?_ ” She asked, a coy note to her voice. Steve turned red.

“Not when you’re _hungover_ you can’t.” He said defensively. Natasha laughed, and Bucky turned scarlet at the sound, though not because of embarrassment.

“ _I don’t **get** hungover, Rogers. Remember?”_ There was a peculiar element to her voice then, something Bucky couldn’t quite place his finger on. But when she spoke again, it was gone.

“ _I’ll call you boys tonight, okay? Once the movie hits theatres there’s going to be a ton of interviews with big names. Yelena, Anthony and Bobbi will also be there._ ”

“And you?” Asked Steve,

“ _Of course._ ” The grin was audible, “ ** _Someone_** _has to keep Stark in line. Talk later._ ”

“Later.” Steve agreed, and she hung up. Both men groaned, both with their headaches, and for several hours neither moved, except when Steve pulled the bag of peas under his head and cradled it like a pillow. The only noises made were the groans and whines of a hangover purging itself agonisingly from their bodies. Eventually, Steve found enough strength to stand up, stagger into the kitchen, and make some food. They both agreed there was only one thing in terms of food that could cue hangover, and Bucky was relieved when he smelled bacon frying, his troubles seeming to melt away already.

Bucky managed to claw his way from the couch over to the kitchen, and they nursed their headaches with bacon and water, making only the quietest noises, and finding that, eventually (sometime around six in the evening) they found that the pounding workmen inside their skulls had gone home for the day, and when the phone rang again, Bucky had no problems at all picking it up.

“Hello?” He asked,

“ _Hello, James._ ” He turned bright red, and from that Steve knew at once it was Natasha. He glanced at her number on the fridge and pointed to it whilst looking at Bucky, who glared at him.

“You said you were gonna call.” Bucky said to Natasha, still glaring at Steve, who only grinned. “About... interviews?”

He could hear the grin in her voice, “ _Yes,_ The Pits _seems to be the new hit film and everyone wants an interview with the stars on their chat shows. I’ll send over the details as I get them, so keep your phone on, but for now I would suggest not making any plans for the next fortnight._ ”

Plans, huh? Bucky’s eyes wandered over to the slip of paper, with the dainty handwriting and the scarlet-lipstick kiss in the corner. He felt a swelling sensation in his chest; pride, courage. She’d given him her number. She’d kissed him back. They’d talked all the time on set.

“Speaking of plans,” He said, forcing the words through his lips before he chickened out. “D’you... D’you wanna go out on a date?”

There was a very long pause on the end of the line. Steve was looking at Bucky with such wide, baby-blue eyes that he almost looked like that punk seven-year-old kid he’d met all those years ago, only (annoyingly) tall and muscular. Slowly, the look of utter shock stretched into a grin, he flashed a double thumbs up, and took the rest of his food into his bedroom, but Bucky knew he’d be listening at the door.

“Um...” It was the first sound Natasha had made since he’d last spoke, and only the second time _ever_ he had rendered her speechless (he still reckoned that was a record of some sort, the woman was as dangerous as she was beautiful). She probably got asked out by guys of all calibre all the time, but maybe it was different if she liked them back: _she_ had given _him_ her number.

He called to mind Steve’s words all those months ago. _Buck, you need to get this crush under control if you’re gonna work with her. Natasha’s a great woman to work with, but she has her boundaries, and you drooling over her will not end well._ He reckoned it was so far working out very well (but that could change quickly if she said no). But that said, he hadn’t exactly been _drooling_ over her. He had tried to remain as professional as possible.

“Um...” Natasha said again, sounding very flustered, “I... I don’t...” Bucky’s heart sank,

“Oh.” He said, slightly dully, “Right. That’s okay. Sorry for bothering you.”

“No!” She exclaimed, “No, James, it’s not that. It’s just... I’m _so busy_ right now and I wasn’t thinking clearly when I... when I gave you my number...” She paused, and her professional demeanour returned; the confident woman who sounded like sex and meant everything she said or did. “I like you. You’re cute, you’re funny, and I’ll admit, you’re a good kisser. But I am insanely busy for the next two weeks at least, and it wouldn’t be fair to keep you waiting around for something that, in all honesty, might never have the time to happen.”

Even though he knew she was being objective, he felt a little hurt, but somewhere, from the depths of his mind where the suave guy who’d managed to charm all those showgirls resided, words emerged.

“This isn’t about fairness or honesty.” He said, “If I wanna go on a date I’m not gonna be thinking rationally. Not just because you’re gorgeous, because dating isn’t about being rational. It’s about seeing a cute dame and taking her out for dinner or a movie.” He cringed a little at the word _dame_ – Steve and that war film were getting to him – but it seemed to work well with Natasha.

He could almost hear the smirk in her voice. “Well, if you insist, let’s be irrational.” She smiled, and he blushed bright red at the sound of her voice. _Holy crap_ she was gorgeous. It was so easy to picture her with her head cocked to the side, pinning her phone between her shoulder and ear as she typed away on her computer and went through paperwork, still looking gorgeous no matter what she was wearing.

“Lets.” He grinned, “How does the eighteenth sound?”


	10. Damask Date (Cranberries and Old Books)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Natasha Romanoff's _The Pits_ is still breaking records and already mentions of Oscars and flying around. Regardless of whether or not this is true, everyone knows that Bucky Barnes, Anthony Stark, Steve Rogers and the rest of the cast are eager to sign on for the sequel, hinted at the end of the film. Rumours range from a mere sequel to a full series, but everyone is sure that Romanoff's first film starring Caden is not to be the last, and that the sequels, however many there are, will only get better!

The eighteenth, as it turned out, was great. Bucky spent the next two weeks in a whirlwind of interviews, parties and the general post-release buzz of a good film; it was this that was so addictive about the job. Showing your work off to the world and having everyone go “yeah, that’s actually good, nice one!”

But for the first time, despite the fact that this was his _biggest_ film yet, his _biggest_ role yet, with the _biggest_ hype yet, he was a little detached. Every time he saw Natasha, at the interviews or the party, she would talk to him, and he polite and they would chat as they always had, but there was this unspoken thing between them. _I like you. I want to go on a date with you. I **am** going on a date with you. But not now._ And he honestly felt like a horny little teenager all over again.

It didn’t help that Steve had told _the entire cast_ about them, either. Everyone knew they were going on a date, everyone knew about the insane amount of sexual tension (they’d have to be blind, deaf and _dead_ not to), and it came as no surprise. So everyone was teasing them mercilessly.

“Yes, Natasha always worked very _closely_ with Bucky to ensure he got it _just_ right.” Steve would grin to a talk show host.

“Bucky was always very attentive to Natasha, knowing exactly what she wanted done, and _how_ she wanted it done.” Anthony Stark would smirk to the cameras.

“The pair of them were practically _inseparable_ , always working way later than everyone else, making sure every last hit was exact.” Bobbi Morse would say, feigning seriousness to a reporter.

Frankly after just four days Bucky was about ready to slap the lot of them, because one thing he and Natasha (or, as Steve _always_ insisted calling her around him, _Nat_ ) had agreed was that their relationship would stay on the down low. They had been hounded by the press before about their relationship status and neither were eager to repeat that. The previous relationships had been little- or unknown individuals. They were both famous, so it would be a _lot_ worse than before.

But, eventually, the eighteenth arrived, and Steve almost had an asthma attack from watching Bucky flap around the apartment like a headless chicken – and he hadn’t had asthma problems since he’d been a kid!

He was up at nine (even though it was a Saturday and he was currently work free _anyway_ and the date wasn’t until seven) and in the shower like he’d discovered his clothes had been drenched in harmful chemicals. He scrubbed himself within an inch of his life, shaved as carefully as he had since senior prom, brushed his teeth three times before he’d even had _breakfast_ , and spent two hours picking out clothes whilst in a clean tee and sweats.

“Where are you even _taking_ her?” Steve asked from the doorway of Bucky’s room, watching his best friend hold up two button-down shirts that looked basically the same, and compare them.

“Some place Clint recommended.” Bucky replied. He’d gotten in touch with the guy after Natasha had agreed to their date, and asked him for some recommendations. “Swanky place uptown; _Soldat d’Hiver_. It’s French.”

“That’s always a good sign.” Steve muttered, raising his eyebrows with mild concern. “Hey, Buck, you’re getting kinda stressed over this, are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, sure.” Bucky answered, turning to smile at him, “Just... nervous. Natasha... she’s really classy. I wanna impress her.”

“Okay, but don’t try too hard, I don’t want to have to call the Kitchen.” Steve was referring to the attorneys _Nelson & Murdock_ over in Hell’s Kitchen, New York. The two men who worked there – the aforementioned Murdock and Nelson – had helped the boys out of a tight spot a few months ago — long story short, Steve had had a stalker, one that had been pretty stoked to see her favourite actor coming to New York every Christmas and thinking that was a sign they were 'meant to be' (it wasn't like he'd grown up there or anything). The budding law firm had since become Steve and Bucky’s go-to.

“I’m taking her out to a French restaurant, not the alley behind a Wal-Mart.” Bucky scowled at him. Steve shrugged, grinned and walked out, calling over his shoulder, “I’m gonna get a coffee down the street, you want anything?”

“No, I’m good!” Bucky called back, not even taking his eyes off of the identical white shirts, continuing to scrutinise them, as though he expected one to break down into tears and admit it was inferior.

* * *

At six-thirty, Bucky’s cab arrived outside the apartment building that Natasha lived in. It was upper class and posh, she had an apartment near the top of the building, lots of glass and space in every one.

He could imagine that; a gorgeous, classy girl living in a gorgeous, classy building. He was hit with a sudden image of her standing facing the large glass wall in a silky slip and dressing gown, weight on one leg, hair tumbling down her back, sipping from a glass of wine.

“Uh, buddy?” The cabbie was giving him a strange look from the rear-view mirror, one eyebrow raised, “You gonna get out or what?” He spoke with a strong New York accent, one that, despite all his years living there, Bucky had never gotten used to. It was almost jarring compared to the California drawl he normally heard these days. Regardless, he'd always preferred the tones of his own home borough of Brooklyn. Apparently, so did many of the girls.

“Oh, right...” He muttered, “Uh... wait here, okay? I’ll be back in five.” The cabbie nodded and rolled down his window, pulling out a lighter and a cigarette. He tilted the pack towards Bucky, who raised a hand in a _thanks but no thanks_ motion. He had nothing against smokers, but really hated the habit himself.

He crossed the street and buzzed at the door. The little slip of paper read _Natalia Romanova_ in elegant script. Natasha had told him she’d been born in Russia, and that she’d adapted her name to sound more American (and also as a bit of a showbiz pseudonym). Personally, he preferred the original Russian. _Natalia_ rolled off of his tongue like honey.

“ _Hello?_ ” Natasha’s voice was fuzzy over the intercom. Suddenly Bucky felt very nervous, and his collar felt very tight. He hooked a finger into the shirt collar and pulled at it, swallowing.

“Hi, Natasha, it’s James. You ready to go?” He asked,

“ _Almost._ ” She replied, “ _You wanna come in for a minute?_ ” There was a buzz and the door unlocked. Walking in, it looked more like a hotel lobby than an apartment building, a lot of brass and plush-red seats and mahogany tables. A young woman was sat in a chair, reading a book. Hearing the door open, she looked up.

“Hey, aren’t you that Bucky Barnes guy?” She asked. Bucky shook his head.

“No. I get that a lot.” He wasn’t lying to be spiteful, but this of all times was not a good time to be recognised; especially if he was going to go on a date with Natasha Romanoff. The girl in the chair – most likely a doorman (doorwoman?) on a break – shrugged and turned back to her book without another word.

Bucky let himself into the lift and pressed the button for Natasha’s floor. This was a high-end building in the high-end part of the city; each floor was a single apartment, and you didn’t rent, you bought. The lift doors opened directly into Natasha’s apartment; sort of. There was a front door with a letterbox in front of him, and a door that presumably led to the fire exit on his right. He lightly pressed against the door in front of him and it swung open to reveal a sort of hallway with a rack of coats and a row of shoes on the floor. There was a doorway in front of him, leading into another corridor and presumably the rest of the apartment. Somewhat sheepishly, he knocked lightly against the open door.

“Hello, James, I’ll be ready in a sec.” Came Natasha’s voice, “Feel free to make yourself at home.” She added, and he took her up on her offer, gingerly. He stepped through the doorway and turned left to find himself in the living room of the apartment. With the white shag carpet, black leather seats and glass coffee table, he was even more easily than before able to picture her with that glass of wine in her hand.

“Sorry about that.” Came a voice, and he turned to see Natasha standing in a doorway that presumably led to her bedroom. Bucky’s jaw literally dropped.

He’d thought she was pretty on set, he’d thought she was beautiful in her office, he’d thought she was _gorgeous_ at the premiere, but that was nothing compared to how she looked now. Her curls were styled more loosely and brushed her shoulders in thick, scarlet waves. She was dressed modestly in a sleeveless, emerald green dress that came to her knees, and silver sandals with kitten heels. She was not that much shorter than him, so for that fact he was glad. All her jewellery was silver and emeralds, and her little handbag was silver, too. She looked utterly, utterly perfect.

And she blushed a little at his unadulterated appreciation of her appearance, smiling and saying, “You look very handsome.” He did indeed. He was in a white shirt black blazer and black trousers. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone in a deceptively casual style. He just hadn’t wanted to be over formal, but given that she was in something closer to a _dress_ than a _gown_ , he’d made the right choice.

“So do you...” Bucky said dazedly, then he snapped back to reality in full, “I-I mean _beautiful_ , you look beautiful.” Natasha gave him another dazzling smile, which only improved the effect.

“Shall we go then?” She asked, and when he nodded, he realised his mouth was still hanging open. He clapped it shut, grinned nervously, and offered Natasha his arm. She smiled, took it, and he led her out. They paused only so she could lock the door, and then continued back down and out onto the street, where the cabbie was just stubbing out his cigarette.

“Evening, Miss.” He grinned in his thick accent. Either he didn’t know who Natasha was or didn’t particularly care, because he seemed entirely un-flustered when she climbed into his cab and Bucky slid in beside her.

“ _Soldat d’Hiver_ , please.” Bucky told the cabbie, who nodded and pulled out into the road.

“ _Soldat_ , huh?” Natasha asked, “That’s one of my favourite restaurants.”

“I know.” Bucky smiled at her, and felt the suave Brooklyn guy rising up as he remembered that she wanted to be here as much as he did, and thus began to find his bearings. Admittedly, seeing her _this gorgeous_ had thrown him off a bit – not that he was complaining. “I admit, I called Clint for some ideas.”

“I’m glad you did.” She smiled, “I’m _starving_.” Her smile was mischievous, but with a slight predatory glint in her eye. That was exactly the kind of smile he gave to girls, and he hadn’t thought anyone was capable of doing it better than he was. He had been wrong. It looked even better on her. He felt a tug in his abdomen; he _wanted_ to be her prey, he _wanted_ to let her play with him.

But it was only the first date. He wasn’t that kind of guy; he wasn’t going to push something like this, and risk what he knew would be his only chance. Something about Natasha suggested she was not the sort of person to give second chances. Something about her had a dark edge; like there was a part of her life, her _soul_ that she disliked; tried to hide away.

“Are you okay?” He asked. He’d noticed only hints of this edge before. How she’d commented about being able to run on empty, for example, back when filming had just been starting. But it had been only a glimpse. For some reason she couldn’t hide it as well today.

Natasha turned to him and smiled, and suddenly it was gone, “Fine.” She replied, “Great, actually. It’s been a while since someone’s asked me out, all traditional-like.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Really?” He asked, “Pretty gal like you, must get asked out all the time.”

She shrugged delicately, smiling at the sound of his Brooklyn accent, bleeding through a little more than usual. “Depends if you consider drunken propositions involving the back seat of a Chevy.” She said lightly. Then she grinned, “Most of the time, guys are just interested in a fun night.”

“Can’t blame ‘em. You’re gorgeous.” Bucky said without thinking, then his eyes widened, “Sorry, I-I didn’t mean—” But she waved a hand and cut him off with a smile,

“It’s fine.” She assured him, “I know what you meant.” Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He suddenly got the distinct impression that he was _way_ out of his depth. She was so… unflappable.

* * *

A few minutes later they arrived outside of _Soldat d’Hiver_ and he offered her his arm, another habit he’d picked up from Steve. She laughed but obliged, giving him a dazzling smile.

“A true gentleman.” She noted, and he gave her the smirk-smile that usually drove girls crazy. He saw something glint in her eyes before she returned it, “I like that.” She purred in a low voice, and he swallowed. She was _good_. Nothing could throw her, and he was equal parts attracted and terrified.

They were shown to their table, a cozy leather booth that was almost a small room in itself. There was easily enough place for six people, but they sat a decent distance apart, facing each other. They were given menus, which listed everything in French and English, and then left to chat whilst they ordered.

“You come here often?” Bucky asked, a good, if somewhat clichéd opening. Natasha glanced at him before returning her gaze to the menu. He couldn’t see her mouth, but he could tell by her eyes that she was smiling.

“Not recently,” She admitted, “I’ve been so busy with one film after the other – I think it’s been almost a year.” She sighed, “A shame, really. I love this place. I used to come every Saturday, for a time.” There was a lull in the conversation as a waiter appeared and poured them wine.

“Well, maybe you could do that again.” He smiled at her, once they were alone again. “Even the Scarlet Starlet needs to take a break.” She chuckled and shrugged,

“Maybe.” She replied. “And maybe you could come with me.”

“Ten minutes in and you’re already asking me out on a second date?” He remarked with a grin, “I’m better than I thought I was.”

“I’m sure you’re _very_ good.” Natasha smiled at him seductively, her words rich with the double entendre, “And from what I’ve seen so far, you _are_. But even if we don’t hit it off, I like you, James. I don’t have many friends, but I’d like to think you’re one of them.” She smiled at him, but this time it was softer, more friendly than sexy. He grinned back at her.

“I’d like to think that, too.” He replied, and raised his wine glass, “To friends.” He smiled, not caring how cheesy that sounded. Natasha laughed, evidently thinking it _was_ cheesy, but she raised her glass and tapped it to his with a delicate _chink_ ,

“To friends.” She agreed, and they drank.

But, despite this, they _did_ hit it off. Conversation was easy; they already knew what they had in common, so that helped. They talked about the aftermath of the film’s release, the press hype, the plans for a sequel. Bucky confirmed he would most _definitely_ like to reprise his role as Caden, and that Steve would have no issues in doing likewise.

The subject eventually turned to their lives before they’d met. Natasha already knew a little about him thanks to Steve; how they’d met because some punk kid couldn’t keep himself out of a fight, and another punk kid wouldn’t stand to see him beat up. He talked about his mother, hardworking and honest, how he’d been a handful; him and his little sister Rebecca raising hell. He talked about how his and Steve’s mothers had been so close, perhaps they had been one family of five more than a pair of three and two, respectively.

“It sure sounds like it.” Natasha smiled, idly playing with her food as she spoke, “I would love to meet Rebecca; she sounds sweet.”

“Only because you haven’t met her.” He said this with an easy grin, “No, she’s a good kid. Smart, too. Wants to be a photographer.” He chuckled, “She hates watching my films, though; says it’s weird to watch her brother on a screen.” Another small chuckle. Natasha grinned at him,

“So I guess she hasn’t been flocking to see _The Pits_ like the rest of the masses?” Her voice was slightly dry. Bucky smiled,

“Actually, she has. A couple of her friends dragged her – she doesn’t tell anyone I’m her brother, I asked her not to so she wouldn’t deal with all the paparazzi crap – she said she liked the story, and since I didn’t look very like _me_ it was bearable.” He ran a hand through his hair. For the film he’d had to grow it out, but it was short again now. Natasha glanced at him sideways as he did this, thinking he looked much better with shorter hair.

 _I could eat him with a spoon._ She thought, then shook herself, because she was really enjoying the conversation and it was the first date and she didn’t want to screw this up. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Must be a good film if even _she_ likes it.” Her smile always came so easily around him, she both liked it, and was a little afraid of it.

“She _did_ say she didn’t care for my romantic interest, though.” He noted idly, “Says Yelena came of as pretentious.” He shrugged, then looked sideways, and leant in a little closer, “Personally, I kind of agree.”

Natasha looked at him, “You do?”

“Nothing against you or your writing, but I got the sense that Yelena didn’t like me all that much.” He told her, “She never talked to me off camera, and she was always staring at Steve.”

“Oh, yes.” Natasha chuckled, “She has a bit of a crush on him.”

“A _bit_? I was surprised she even _looked_ at me!” He grinned at her, “I think she hates me.”

“She doesn’t _hate_ you, it’s a Russian thing.” Natasha said dismissively, “We’re a lot blunter than you Americans, we cut to the chase and don’t waste time.”

“You’ve always been very nice to _me_ though,” Bucky pointed out, “Does that mean you’re one of _us Americans_?”

Natasha laughed, “Hardly.” She told him, “I just happen to like you a bit more than Yelena does.”

“And I am perfectly okay with that.” He grinned. She smirked at him as she took another drink of wine. There was a small pause as they continued to eat their food, but after a moment, Bucky spoke up again.

“So, you know all about me.” He noted, “But I have to say you remain tantalisingly mysterious. Care to share?” He asked her, throwing her another smirk-smile for good measure. Natasha visibly tensed, but tried not to show it, and shrugged a little stiffly.

“Not much to tell.” She replied, “I grew up in Russia, and I was an orphan. When I was eight, a man from the Russian Ballet spotted me and said I would make a good dancer. From there, I trained for the ballet, and then I discovered Hollywood, so to speak. I began acting, got famous, and swapped to directing and writing.” Another shrug, “That’s it, really.”

Bucky smiled, “I somewhat doubt that,” He said, “There’s not a cell in your body that isn’t interesting. But I won’t pry; everyone knows you like your privacy.” He paused, “I’d like to see you dance, though.”

Natasha looked up at him, honest-to-god surprised, “Really?” She asked, confused, “I haven’t danced in _years_ , I’m sure I’d be terrible.”

“And I’m sure you _wouldn’t_ be.” He grinned, “Tell you what, why don’t we make a bet of it. Next week, you and me, the dancing school uptown. I know a guy there, Alexei, he owns the place. I’m sure he’d let me in after hours.”

Natasha looked at him and did not speak for a very long moment. Such a long moment that he began to wonder if he’d overstepped his boundaries in planning a second date when they hadn’t even finished the first one. The pause lengthened, and he began to grow very uncomfortable.

“Um… Natasha?” He asked, “If you really don’t want to, you can just say no. I didn’t mean to make you—”

“Yes.”

Bucky stared at her, “What?” He asked gracelessly. Natasha smiled at him. It was a different smile to any one she’d ever given him before. It was shy, unsure, and not entirely there; like there was a thought inside her head vying for her attention, and half winning. She looked like he had asked her to do something that terrified her, but she was going to do it anyway.

“I said yes.” She told him. He smiled at her,

“It’s a date, then.” He decided, “Will you be wearing a tutu?”

“I will if you will.” She replied smoothly, once again the unflappable, witty director he found himself falling for more and more every day.

And little did he know the feeling was mutual. Bucky had been right in assuming there was more to Natasha’s life to what she had told him. She had had a hard upbringing. Just because that man had come along, promising her fame and glory and a life better than her stinking, starving, underfunded, understaffed, overcrowded orphanage… It didn’t mean that her life _had_ been all fame and glory from that one moment. She’d discovered Hollywood by running away from the man who beat her if she underperformed, who starved her to keep her figure, who had more than once threatened to violate her in the grossest way possible.

Dancing brought her joy, but also brought her terror. She had promised to herself after running away that she would never let anyone in again, never allow herself to be as weak as she had in Russia. But here she was, promising to dance again all for a man whom she’d only known a few months.

But what was time, really? She had known Clint only weeks before she had found herself trusting him implicitly. She had known Yelena for years and still didn’t trust her much. But James… something about him was just so _open_ , so _honest_. Like Steve but cuter, more predatory; sexier. They had so easily developed this easy to-and-fro, this friendship that always hinted at something deeper. Not even sex, just something more profound. She’d been telling the truth when she said she didn’t have all that many friends, but she’d known almost at once that James would be one of them.

So when he was walking her back to her apartment, the sleeves of his white shirt pushed back, his black jacket draped around her shoulders, their fingers intertwined and their hands swinging idly as they chatted, she felt truly content.

“So… this is it.” Bucky said lightly, standing outside her building, one hand in his pocket, the other raised to hold his jacket, which was thrown over his shoulder. Natasha paused a moment to look at him. She could see the outline of his form under the thin fabric of his white shirt – he seemed to be wearing an a-shirt underneath but that didn’t really do anything. He was not as broad as Steve, nor as tall, but he still had a _very_ nice physique. He was still tall, still broad, still strong. His dark hair was buzzed short at the back but fell over his eyes so adorably. His eyes were so easy for her to lose herself in, and the quirk of his lips; the smirk-smile that sent shockwaves right down her spine and to her abdomen.

“I… suppose it is.” She admitted, looking up at the building with a small sigh. She turned back to him with a small smile, her hands clasped in front of her. Bucky grinned.

“Is there any hope for a goodnight kiss?” He asked lightly. Their smiles turned mischievous, and Natasha took a bold few steps towards him, so close they were almost touching.

“You tell me.” She replied softly, not having to speak very loudly. Bucky grinned. He let his fingers slip from the grip he had on his jacket’s collar, hearing the fabric fall to the floor as he took his other hand but of his pocket, placed both of them on Natasha’s waist, and leant in.

It was tentative at first; merely a touch of lips on lips. But then Natasha rose her arms to link them around his neck, and his own hands snaked around her waist to pull her closer. She nipped at his bottom lip gently and opened his mouth with her own. He obliged eagerly, and felt her tongue in his mouth as he did likewise. She tasted like cranberries and the wine they’d drunk, she smelled like her perfume and paper; like old books. _He_ tasted like the chocolate cake he’d had for dessert, but under that was something smoky and wooden, like a fireplace. He smelled like cinnamon and cologne and a scent she had only ever been able to describe as _boy_.

It could have been seconds or hours before they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily. Natasha grinned up at him and he did likewise, both of them giddy like they were high. Bucky had always considered kissing and sex like a drug; you got high and then you came down and sometimes you got super hungry afterwards.

“That was…” He began, but broke off because he was too dazed for the appropriate word. Natasha nodded, understanding his confusion; she, too, could hardly think straight. She wanted _so badly_ to just drag him upstairs and rip his shirt off and a million other things that had crossed her mind over the course of the evening and, honestly, long before. But it was still the first date, and this felt like something she’d want to take her time with.

“I’ll see you next Saturday?” She asked with a hint of a smirk. Bucky smirked back and nodded,

“I’ll pick you up at eight.” He said. He was thinking along similar lines, how he wanted to carry her upstairs and take off that gorgeous dress and see her come apart. He’d envisioned many scenarios; on her bed, on his, on a sofa or against the wall of his bedroom. Waking up the next morning with her curled against his side, and not bothering to get up because they already had all the entertainment they needed right where they were…

But none of that would be happening tonight. This was important; it deserved to be taken slow. He kissed her again, lightly on the cheek, and as he pulled away his whispered, “Goodnight, Natasha.”

She smiled up at him and finally unlooped her arms from his neck, sliding her hands down his torso until they dropped to her sides idly. “Goodnight, James.” She replied. She turned and climbed the few steps up to her building’s door, and she took pleasure in knowing James was watching her walk, putting a little extra swing in her hips for good measure. She closed a hand around the handle of the front door and, as she pulled it open, she turned her head back to him for a moment, winked, and blew him a kiss before walking back inside.


	11. Pink Pirouette (Memory Lane Is Not A Stroll)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: It seems we have a missing star on our hands. Protagonist of _The Pits_ , Bucky Barnes, seems to have dropped off our radar. Is he hiding from the wash of fame that's headed his way, after starring in this new hit film? Or are the rumours true that he is occupied by a new lady friend, the identity of which as well known as his whereabouts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you guys are _lucky_ , I've had a large stroke of genius and you get the next chapter just a few days later? I suppose you're owed one, though, after the previous long, _long_ waits. 
> 
> Enjoy this chapter, and if you're the sort of person that likes to listen to music whilst you read, I would recommend Hozier's _Take Me To Church_ which served as great inspiration for this one.

The next week passed _agonisingly_ slowly for Bucky. The interviews were over, the film was hyping itself, and he had no decent excuse to talk to Natasha – not that he _could_ , anyway. She was busy on another one of her numerous projects.

He resorted, eventually, to simply lying on the sofa, watching reruns of anything he could get his hands on. It normally had Natasha in somewhere; even if it was back in her early days where she was an extra or only had one line. _The Pits_ was not out on DVD yet, so he found himself pulling it from its “little wooden book coffin” and rereading it over and over.

“Buck, you’re _pining_. It’s not attractive.” Steve frowned on Thursday. “Imagine if Natasha could see you like this.”

“If she were _here_ I wouldn’t be lying on the sofa on my own.” He frowned at Steve, “I’m _bored_. I have _nothing_ to do and _nowhere_ to go.”

Steve sighed, “Just put on the hoodie and hat, go for a walk.” He suggested. That was their go-to disguise; a blue hoodie and a red baseball cap, and sometimes some glasses. But Bucky shook his head. Steve knew it had been futile. There was still so much hype about _The Pits_ , their faces were plastered on every bus and billboard that it would be impossible not to recognise him, even if he looked different as Caden.

“Fine.” Steve rolled his eyes, “Keep pining, but if she asks me what you did this past week, don’t expect me to lie.” He turned and headed out the door; he was filming an episode of some cop show this week; the schmuck-who-dies-at-the-beginning-of-an-episode.

“I never do!” Bucky called back, and it was true. Steve was his best friend and they had never once lied to each other. Steve was always honest, _always_. Bucky couldn’t quite make that claim, but he _could_ say he’d never lied to Steve.

And, despite Steve’s insistence, Bucky would never admit, not even on his deathbed, that when his alarm woke him on Saturday that he _whooped_.

It was partly because of the fact that he had a date with a gorgeous girl, but there were times when, as an actor, he was out of work for a long time and had no reason to get up in the morning. It was always fun for about three or four days, then it became boring. He was just glad he had something to _do_ today; a reason to roll out of bed and get dressed. The only time in the past week he’d done that had been Monday, when he’d called Alexei for a spare key for the ballet studio. It had arrived on Tuesday, giving him nothing to do for the rest of the week.

Once more, he showered and scrubbed within an inch of his life, but he had more of an issue picking clothes this time. He knew what guys wore to ballet, but A) he was not a ballerina, and B) he had no desire to dress like one, because he was trying to appear manly and a leotard was probably not the best way to do that. He eventually settled on a t-shirt and the kind of baggy pants footballers wore when they were training and it was chilly, over a pair of black yoga pants. Masculine enough, and not too lazy (like sweats would have been), but still roomy enough to dance. Not that he knew how.

Over the top of his shirt he put a leather jacket, deciding it looked better than a fleece, and a small backpack for good measure; with a bottle of wine, deodorant and a change of clothes (because he knew he stank when he was sweaty and frankly that wasn’t the angle he was going for) among other things. After asking Steve for an opinion (well, after Steve stopped laughing at his nervousness long enough to give an answer) he was relatively confident and ready to go.

At five.

Three hours early.

Those last three hours were the worst. Bucky had decided long ago that waiting became more and more unbearable the closer to the deadline you were. Like a fever, it intensified until it broke, until there was a release – _okay bad choice of wording_. He thought with reddening cheeks. The _last_ thing he needed to think of was _Natasha_ and _releases_.

But telling himself _no_ wasn’t enough. Once you have a thought, there’s no way to kill it. Especially thoughts like his; Natasha, lying beneath him, lips swollen with kisses, body flushed with heat and desire, sounding like sex even when she spoke normally, but now muttering his name, swearing in Russian, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss her throat as he moved—

 _NO! Cut it out!_ He shouted internally, savagely. He slapped himself across the face to jog himself out of the thoughts, and saw with dismay that his baggy pants did nothing to hide them. He quickly started imagining Steve’s warbling in the shower, but to little avail.

* * *

Luckily, by the time it was half seven and time to pick Natasha up, every sign of those thoughts was long gone. Completely by fluke, he ended up with the same cabbie as last week.

“You goin’ on another date, Mistah?” He asked his accent still very thick and very New York. Bucky nodded,

“Same place as last week, please.” He added, and the cabbie pulled out into the road. The cabbie chuckled,

“What the hellerya doin’ this week if you’re dressin’ like that?” He asked, “That gal was real classy, and you’re goin’ in sports stuff?”

“We’re going dancing.” Bucky said defensively, “Just drive.” He then added irritably. The cabbie shrugged, smirking, and they continued the journey in silence. When Natasha was waiting outside the building in a long coat that showed only black-clad calves and fuzzy boots, the cabbie was chuckling like an old woman, and Bucky hissed that he’d get an extra ten bucks if he shut up. He did.

“Good evening, James.” She smiled, looking radiant, and he felt his cheeks heat up as she kissed his cheek. She then turned to the cabbie, whose lips were pursed in such determined silence that he looked constipated. When she said, “Red Room Ballet Studios, please.” He only nodded shortly. She frowned as though confused at his bad-temperedness, but it was fairly typical of a cabbie, so she paid it no further thought.

“Haven’t seen you since last week, Natasha.” Bucky grinned, taking immense pleasure in the fact that she was sat right next to him. She smiled up at him in a way that suggested they were sharing on an in joke; reminding him of that first time they’d spoken. “Have I missed anything?”

“Me, I hope.” She smirked at him. But secretly she was a little nervous. She hadn’t danced since before running away, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for what it would bring. But she had James by her side. He was the only person in the world other than Clint who made her feel safe.

He grinned down at her, “That’s a given.” He said, “But I meant along the lines of… your life?”

She shrugged, “Not much. A fairly normal week. I’ve been busy, but nothing spectacular. You?”

Bucky’s mind instantly turned to his week spent on the couch like an upturned turtle, watching her old movies, thinking about her sleeping with him, and replied, “Same here. Not much.” In a slightly-too-high voice, and he looked pointedly out of the window, forcefully calling to mind Steve’s shower-singing and, for good measure, the pledge of allegiance he recited every morning.

“Have you ever been dancing before?” She asked him, and he shook his head, at this point chancing to look at her directly, and finding that she was not wearing much makeup. She looked utterly gorgeous, of course, but it didn’t help dissuade his fantasies of waking up with her next to him. He smiled, and shook his head,

“Not this kind.” He said, calling to mind a few clubs when he’d been in high school. That had never ended well; he always stood on the girl’s foot. But, from what he knew it ballet, it was more of a solo thing and he probably wouldn’t do that. The thought brought him more comfort than he cared to admit.

* * *

_Red Room Ballet Studios_ was truly a place of beauty. The rooms were smooth floors and mirror walls and roomy and something about them had a classic, timeless feel that even Bucky, who had never danced ballet in his life, had to appreciate it. He showed himself out of the performance studio as he went to find the sound room and put on some music. Hopefully Alexei had a simple sound system.

And for all the appreciation Bucky held for the room, Natasha held even more. She walked into the center of the room as though in a trance, raised her arms slightly and spun a slow circle of awe. He saw her inhale the scent of the room, mutter something in Russian, and smile to herself.

But the smile was edged in sadness.

 _Again_. The voice snapped like a whip in her mind, and she found herself stranding to attention as though the voice hadn’t been a mere memory. Seeming to accept this as a cue, Natasha unbuttoned her coat to reveal black leggings, a grey racerback shirt and black ballet slippers under her boots. She arranged herself in first position, and then, for the first time in years, she danced.

The steps came back to her as though they had never left, and she found herself moving to non-existent music, leaping and twirling like she had never stopped; Swan Lake, Nutcracker, all the ballets she had learned, danced to until her feet bled. Eventually music came on and she slipped gracefully from Nutcracker into this new ballet, whose name escaped her but steps did not. It was fast, brooding; the terrible climax of a performance. Faster and faster she moved, following the music without fail.

Bucky had since returned from the sound room and was watching her move. She was breath-taking. The motions and the paces came back to her with such ease it was more like moments had passed rather than years. She danced and twirled and found herself _laughing_ as she did so; how long a time had passed since that had last happened. She moved like smoke across water, like she had been _born_ knowing the steps, _created_ to perform them.

He had known she was graceful, but this was something else entirely. Bucky watched her, enchanted by the movements, eyes darting to follow her swift, almost frantic movements. Until he caught a glimpse of her face, and saw that there were tears.

At this same moment, Natasha’s eyes met his, and for a split second she was ripped from the reverie of the dance, and forgot her movements, and she stumbled, falling to the ground with a reproachful cry. Bucky ran forwards, asking if she was okay, but he knew she wasn’t by the tears on her face and the small sobs wracking her.

Bucky looked something akin to distraught. “Natasha…” He said softly, “If this… If you don’t want to dance, if you want to go somewhere else…” He just wanted t see her pain stop. He had had no idea that it would be so hard for her to come here.

“No.” She said quietly, “I… I’m fine.” _Again_. The voice snapped inside of her, and she stood, taking her mark, and waiting for an opening in the music where she could slip in again. Once more the dance and the music had its claws in her flesh, and all she could think was to obey the order. _Again_.

Then she felt Bucky place a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to him, confused.

“Natasha, what’s going on?” He asked her, “You… you’re _crying_. Why are you dancing?”

“I… I’m not sure.” She said in a small voice, “I just… I thought I _had_ to.” She paused and swallowed, “It’s been so long… and he’s still inside my head.”

He frowned with confusion, “Who?”

“I should dance, James.” She told him, “I… I _need_ to. I love to, I really do. And I can’t let him haunt me forever.”

“ _Him_?” Bucky asked, “Natasha, you’re not making any sense. Who’s _him_? Why are you crying if you love to dance?” He looked at her and his expression was so pure, so yearning to make her feel better, that she found the words just fell from her mouth.

“Ivan Petrovitch.” She replied, her voice quiet.

“Who?” Bucky asked, wishing he could sound more sophisticated; offer more comfort.

Natasha sniffed and wiped roughly at her eyes. “He was the man who spotted me at the orphanage.”

And then she told him. All the horrors she had endured in the name of Ivan’s _training_ ; the starvation and the beatings, the threats and the days without sleep; every torture she had had to endure and how she had loved to dance in spite of it, but now didn’t dare to, for fear that he would return, or the memories she had tried to forget would. She told him everything. Even Clint didn’t know everything. But now James did, and he listened without interruption, and she spoke without holding back, until they were both sat in the middle of the studio, and Natasha was silent.

“Natasha…” Bucky said hoarsely, he was at a loss for what to say, to do, to _think_. There was a long pause before he finished lamely, “I… I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” She asked, and her voice was dull and the sharp wit that usually decorated it was blunt and tarnished. She had poured out all her anger and fear and grief and she was empty inside. “You didn’t do anything. In fact, I should probably be apologising to _you_. I just… _unloaded_ on you and—”

“No.” He cut across her, voice harsh, “Don’t you dare apologise for that. No one should have to keep that sort of thing bottled up.” He paused, “I’m… honoured that you consider me a good enough friend to share this. It sounds…” _Horrible. Terrible. Awful._ He couldn’t think of a word, “…like Hell.” He finished, “You shouldn’t suffer in silence. No one should.” He outstretched a hand to touch her shoulder, fully expecting her to brush it away, but much to his surprise, and even to her own a little, she didn’t.

“If it’s still… _painful_ for you to be here…” He said slowly, “We can go. Watch a movie, or to the _Soldat_?” He suggested, but Natasha shook her head. She raised her head to look at him, the first time since she had said Ivan’s name, and he saw it was streaked with tears, but she was smiling. All this pain around her and she was smiling. Because of _him_.

He smiled back at her, his own eyes stinging. She was so strong and beautiful, and she had suffered so much. He had never understood heartache before, but now he did. He moved his hand from her shoulder to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away the last traces of her tears.

“Мне так повезло, Я нашел ангела.” She muttered, raising a hand to cover the one he had touched to her cheek. He chuckled past the stinging tears.

“What?” He asked, grinning at her.

“ _I am so lucky. I have found an angel_.” She translated, and she stood up, pulling him to his feet as she did so. She roughly wiped her face and smiled at him, more fully, but still hesitating.

“We came here to dance, didn’t we?” She asked him. “So let’s dance.”

Bucky grinned, shrugging off his leather jacket and baggy pants. In the wall that was one large mirror, he liked to think the yoga pants weren’t enough to emasculate him (Natasha thought they showed off his ass quite nicely). She raised herself _en pointe_ , one hand high above her head, and he pressed play on the little remote.

A different song, this time. Not classical music that would only return more memories and serve to distress her further. This was more modern, something he’d heard on the radio quite a lot; _Take Her To Church_ , or something like that.

Natasha fell into the flow of the music with an ease that could only come from natural talent; the sort that had made her a great actress as well as a wonderful dancer. Her movements were slow and graceful. There was a terrible sadness to her motion but not to her own self, and she looked like a spirit as she danced, gentle and mournful. When the chorus added more power to the music so did her movements add more force to the dance. Faster, but no less graceful; almost lively if not for the regretful tone of the notes. Bucky was so enraptured that he did not immediately register that she had held out her hand for him to take.

Carefully, he did so, and she showed him with light touches how to hold himself, and suddenly they were back in the film studio, and she was showing him how to move and act as Caden. Was this how she had picked the technique up? Being showed, not directed? Posed and not instructed? Probably, but he had no qualms with that. He felt himself holding his breath like he had during filming, and when he moved, lead by her own movements, he found himself more graceful than he last remembered.

“You’re surprisingly light on your feet.” She commented, and the dance became less like ballet and more like ballroom as they moved as a pair. Bucky, concentrating on not stepping on her feet, grinned but didn’t look at her.

“Come on, James.” She smiled, becoming more like herself with each passing moment; the pain and weight of those years fading away as she replaced those harsh memories with ones of him and her and now. Of the dance she loved to dance, not of the endless practising. Of the music and the studio, not of the threats and the bruises. Of the man whom she was falling for, not the one who had used her. “I don’t care if you step on my feet. You’re supposed to be having _fun_.”

He looked up at her again, and flashed her a half-smile that made her heart melt, “I’d have more fun if I knew I wasn’t gonna step on your feet.” He pointed out, “It kind of kills a mood. You dance so pretty.” Granted, he always had a Brooklyn accent, but now it was more prominent than usual, and she allowed herself to laugh.

Bucky grinned at her. This was probably the weirdest second date ever; with tears and dancing and ballet, but he reckoned this was the most open and natural he had ever seen her. She had bared her soul to him, and he had a feeling she hadn’t done that before.

And he found he didn’t care that they were still getting to know the flow of this dating thing, he didn’t care that he was an awkward dancer, he didn’t care that she had just been crying, or that they were currently dancing. He cared that she had allowed herself to open up to him, that she could dance beautifully, that she liked him back as much as he liked her, that she tasted like cranberries.

And, even though it wasn’t _goodnight_ , as the song came to a close, he kissed her.


	12. Seeing Red (Kissed By Fire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: It's been a good few weeks but Romanoff's _The Pits_ continued to break records and blow minds, holding steady at the number one most-watched film of the week, again! But questions are beginning to rise -- it is by this point well known that Yelena Belova broke her leg shortly before filming concluded, and whilst we continue to wish her a speedy recovery, we are all wondering who the mystery stand-in was for the final scene, involving the kiss between our two stars. Is this woman who Bucky Barnes has been sneaking off to see every Saturday, according to one of our photographers? Is it one of Alexei Shoshtakov's dancers? Or is it just a pretty fan who has caught the eye of this year's Hollywood _it_ boy?

Another week passed with a torturous lack of speed. This time, at least, Bucky had a few things to keep him occupied; both he and Steve were now completely out of work, though they both reckoned that would not last for long given the success of _The Pits_. With that in mind, they spent much of the week together, preventing one another from going mad with boredom.

“So, Natasha...” Steve said on Friday evening, as Saturday was apparently their date night, “Third date tomorrow, what’re you doing?”

Bucky shrugged, “I dunno, she said to swing by her place. I guess she wants it to be a surprise.” he shrugged again.

“You bringing condoms?” Steve then asked, with such bluntness that Bucky spat out his beer and proceeded to have a coughing fit.

“I-I-I... _what?!_ ” He spluttered, and Steve laughed.

“Third date, Buck. That’s, _y’know_. The borderline?”

Bucky scowled at him, “Yes, I know that.” He said shortly. Steve sniggered.

“If you make it back alive, tell me how it went. Natasha doesn’t date much either. She has a very _refined_ taste.” He paused, “Which begs the question why she’s dating _you_ , but that’s a whole other conversation.”

Bucky’s scowl deepened, “I’m plenty _refined_ , you punk-ass moron.” He snapped, his voice turning extremely Brooklyn with the insult, which only served to make Steve laugh again, harder than ever. Bucky rolled his eyes and took another swig of beer.

“Remind me why you’re my best bud, again?” He asked crossly, but Steve’s grin was answer enough. He was more like a brother than a friend, but hey, brothers were annoying.

* * *

He arrived at Natasha’s building (dropped off by a different and distinctly _less_ chatty cabbie) at six forty-five that night, in a t-shirt, jeans and leather jacket. He looked presentable but notably casual; and was hoping they weren’t going anywhere fancy – though he liked to think Natasha would have informed him if they were.

There was a young woman standing outside the door – who, he realised, was the same one who had questioned his identity in the lobby a few weeks ago. Obviously she worked in the building, but was taking a break – judging by the cigarette she was smoking. She had dark-hair that was cut boy-short, and had a little red bellhop hat set at a jaunty angle. Her nametag said _Jaime_ and she looked incredibly bored as well as tired.

“Evening.” She said, mumbling around the cigarette in her mouth.

“Evening.” He replied, nodding his head. She tilted the pack of cigarette in her other hand towards him, but he shook his head politely and continued up the steps.

“Who’re you here to see?” Jaime asked as he walked up to the doors of the building, clearly out of nothing more than curiosity. Bucky might have asked how she knew he wasn’t a resident, but it wasn’t like there were hundreds of apartments in the building.

“Natalia Romanova.” He told her, and he still couldn’t get over how nice that name sounded on his tongue. Jaime nodded and stepped aside, allowing him to hit the buzzer.

“Natalia?” Bucky asked, saying her Russian name before he could help himself. “Um... It’s me. Buck—James.”

“ _Hey, James._ ” Came the static reply, “ _Come up_.” The door _clicked_ and unlocked, allowing him entry. The elevator ride seemed longer than before, and he wondered it if was just in his head or if it was genuinely being slow.

When Natasha answered the door, he was relieved to see that she was dressed casually like he was; hair loosely tied back, in a t-shirt and jeans, but no jacket.

“Hi.” He said, blushing as he did so. She blushed a little too.

“Hey.” She replied, “I hope it’s alright with you, but I was thinking we could... stay in? I don’t really fancy going out...”

“How come? He asked, “Is something wrong?” He paled horribly, “Oh, God, is it _Ivan_?”

Natasha paled too, to match his sickly pallor, but shook her head, “God, no.” She replied, “Nothing like that. I just... thought we could stay in. Watch a movie, or something. Like... normal dates.”

“I would’ve thought, given you’re an internationally acclaimed actress, that _normal_ would be out of the question.” He grinned at her. “Sounds nice.” He added, and secretly he was kind of relieved, though he _did_ wonder why she wanted to stay in.

He got his answer about ten minutes later, after there was a beer in his hand and a pizza on its way and they were curled up on her couch and he saw, with _horror_ , that she held the disk for _Snow Warrior_ in her hand.

“Oh no...” He muttered, “You _didn’t..._ ” He blushed crimson and hid his face behind a pillow whilst Natasha laughed,

“Oh, come on!” She exclaimed, “I hear it’s a good film!”

“ _I-have-a-nude-scene-in-it_.” He said through gritted teeth. Granted you only ever saw him from the back during that scene, but _still_. Natasha leant up and kissed his cheek lightly.

“Are you worried I’ll be disappointed?” She asked in a low voice, her eyes glittering with mischief.

“Hardly.” He replied in a mock-haughty voice, “I’m worried you’ll be so impressed you’ll pass out. I don’t want to have to explain that to the pizza guy.” Natasha laughed again and snuggled against him on the couch, pressing _play_ on her remote.

“Let’s see if those worries come to pass.” She said wryly. He grinned and tilted his head to rest on top of her hair. He was sat normally on the couch, both feet planted firmly on the ground, his right arm along the armrest with a beer in his hand. His left hand rested on Natasha’s waist; she was sort of lying on the sofa, leaning against him with her legs curled underneath her.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the pizza guy arrived, and Bucky was dejected at having the warm weight of Natasha snuggling against him gone. But, she returned quickly enough, and they were once more curled up together, watching the film with interest as Bucky made idle comments on the movie,

“That was me, not a stunt double; he sprained his wrist so I had to fill in.”

“They had to CGI that in. Acting that scene without the CG was the most ridiculous I’ve felt in my life.”

“She was a terrible kisser; it took thirty-eight takes for us to get that scene done.”

And so on. They watched the film with a mild interest; Bucky had starred in it, as well as seen the premiere, and Natasha knew the basic rundown of the plot. They chatted and commented on scenes; mostly Bucky’s commentary and Natasha’s subsequent laughter.

By the time the film ended, it was almost half-past ten, and the sky was inky black, though the city was alight with Saturday evening clubbers and a roaring nightlife that had thus earned it the name of _The City That Never Sleeps_. Even from Natasha’s apartment, not quite penthouse but nonetheless high up, they could hear the whooping and drunken cries of glee.

“It’s getting late.” Bucky commented, “I should head back before Steve gets worried.”

Natasha smirked at him. They were still curled up in the sofa, and neither had shown even the slightest inclination to move. “Why? Do you have curfew? Gonna get grounded if you’re out late?”

He scowled at her, “I am allowed to set my own curfew, thanks very much.” He told her. She smiled up at him, eyes sparkling.

“Glad to hear.” She replied, her voice low and smooth. “One of these days I plan to keep you here _very_ late.” The smile turned devilish, and Bucky returned the smile with equal wickedness.

“Oh?” He asked, “Which day, exactly?”

She shrugged lazily, her eyes glittering and her grin sultry. “You tell me.” She replied, but the real meaning was apparent; every day possible. Bucky twitched his head slightly, an almost involuntary action; and immediately blushed, because Natasha had not moved to kiss him. He still had both of his feet planted firmly on the floor, but he was suddenly acutely aware of his hand on her hip. She was still curled up against him, her eyes holding his gaze steady, unconcerned by his tiny motion, an intention to kiss her. Her movements were slow, catlike. She turned so that she was on her hands and knees, her head level with his. Her hands were on the back of the sofa, one either side of his head; caging him. There was a small gap between his leg and the armrest of the sofa, ample space for her own, and before he could register anything else she was straddling him. And then her hands were on the back of his neck, and she was kissing him.

It wasn’t like last week. The kiss. It wasn’t like the last time. It was so much better.

At once it escalated into the fiery desire that had taken a few moments the last time, as though they’d picked up exactly where they’d left off. Some part of them, raw with desperation at the sorrow that last week had raised to the surface, content with the comfort it had reaped, was feral as they clawed for victory with lips and tongues and teeth. All they could hear was the blood pumping in their ears and all they could smell was themselves and each other; old books and cinnamon and boy and sweat. She moved her arms from his neck to his face, pulling her against him, almost desperately. When he broke away to kiss at her neck she let out a whine that echoed around the room and made him shudder. He moved then, standing up suddenly and backing her into a wall, pressing her between himself and the wall. Her hands moved to his shoulders and she jumped up, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he moved his hands to support her there as she returned his earlier favour by kissing along his jawline and leaving what would eventually become a hickey on a pulse point. She wanted him so bad, and she could feel how badly she wanted her, too. His pants did nothing to hide his desire. She dug her heels into the small of his back, he brushed against her, and she let out a cry that almost made him lose his grip on her. He was immediately addicted to that sound, and moved again, grinding against her and relishing in her curses and pleading. “ _James_ —” She began, but she didn’t finish, because she was too dazed to finish the thought, much less verbalise it.

When she began to paw at his t-shirt, tugging at the hem, silently asking for it _off_ , he let her down and stepped back to do so. That one moment of parting was enough for her to regain some clarity, and she held out a hand; _stop_. He looked at her, brown eyes bright and almost completely black with dilation, just like her own. “What?” He asked, his voice hoarse with kisses, but he moved his hands from the hem of his tee, and lowered his arms. “Natasha, if you don’t want—”

“I do.” She cut him off, “ _Trust me_ , I do. But not here.” She smiled and stood, mischief twinkling in her almost-black eyes, “Follow me.” And she took him by the hand and led him deeper into her apartment. He grinned at her, the half-smile that she would never admit had had her weak at the knees from the moment she’d met him, and he didn’t let go of her hand as she led him, both of them buzzing with the high of the kisses, but still able to talk about other things as they walked.

That was probably why Bucky found himself so dizzied by her. She was _gorgeous_ , she sounded like sex itself, but they could still carry a conversation. They could, and _would_ talk for hours about anything. He was in love with her mind as well as her body.

 _Whoa…_ he thought, _in **love**?_

He wasn’t sure what to make of that as she led him through her home. He _liked_ her, a _lot_. He liked spending time around her, he liked talking to her, thinking about her, and he _really_ liked kissing her – and more besides, if his thoughts over the past week were any indication. But _love?_ He wasn’t sure what love _was_ , to be honest. He loved his mother and his sister, of course, but that was obviously a different _type_ of love. This type... he’d never really felt it. He hadn’t been much for relationships more than one-night stands and, if they _really_ liked each other, two or three. He hadn’t had a girlfriend since high school, and was high school ever an indication of real love in the real world? He somewhat doubted that. But he didn’t doubt that, whatever this was that he had with Natasha, it was more profound than simply _liking_ her. He was brought out of his thoughts when she looked directly at him again. Suddenly he didn’t care what this was, he was with Natasha, that was all that mattered.

Bucky was the one to initiate the kiss this time, and it was at once rough and fiery, with an almost desperate element, as if, if they pressed themselves close enough to one another, the aches in their hearts would be satisfied. But no, it was like drinking salt water; it only made their thirst, their _need_ , greater. She nipped at his bottom lip and he groaned low into her mouth. She pulled apart for a moment only to turn them both around and shove him in the chest, hard, so that he fell back onto her bed. He propped himself up on his elbows and grinned at her. Once more she seemed catlike as she crawled languorously up the bed, and there was no doubt who was in control, how utterly at her mercy he was and how much he loved it. She leant down to kiss him and he kissed her back so hard that it hurt, but it was the sort of pain he didn’t mind. His hands touched her waist and she covered them with her own, willing him to not be afraid.

“If you want to touch me,” She muttered in a whisper, “Then _touch me_.”

He gaped up at her, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. Then he grinned, that cheeky half smile that she loved, and twisted sharply, rolling so now she was below him. His hands were firm on her hips and hers fisted in his hair. His weight was crushing on top of her but she loved it, and her legs were as tight around his hips as her arms were around his neck. Bucky’s hands slid up her hips slowly, sneaking under the fabric of her shirt, fingertips on her waist, and she smiled against his mouth. She moved her arms from around his neck, and allowed him to pull at the hem of her shirt, tossing it aside carelessly and ducking his head to kiss at her collar. She whined plaintively, managing to gasp out, “No fair. Your turn.”

He grinned into the hollow of her neck, but obliged, pulling her hands to his own waist and hooking her fingers under his shirt. She took the hint and pulled it over his head, mussing up his hair in the process – why hadn’t that happened with _her?_ He thought desperately, she had more hair them him, but _she_ didn’t look like she’d just rolled out of bed. He pouted and tried to smooth it down, which made her laugh and ruffle a hand through his hair, just to annoy him.

“I think it’s cute.” She murmured in his ear, before pulling him down for another kiss. It was different now that he could feel her skin against his. He was more tanned than she was, and more muscular; a requirement of his stint as Caden. She was tiny in comparison, slender and curvy, but no less strong as she hooked her legs around his waist again and pulled him against her. He groaned low into her mouth, which only made her hold him tighter. She became impatient then, and despite the fact that he was above her, he was completely under her influence. His mind was dizzy from her kisses, and he could hardly think straight when she was so close – when _he_ was so close, he was a little embarrassed to admit. He felt like a horny little seventeen-year-old all over again. Of course, at seventeen he’d been awkward and spotty, he would’ve _never_ been able to land a girl like Natasha Romanoff. He doubted she’d have even _talked_ to him. But that didn’t matter, all that mattered was here and now. Natasha caught him off guard and rolled them over again, and began to fumble with his belt as they kissed clumsily. The belt joined their shirts on the floor with a dull thud, and she pulled his jeans down slowly, as he watched her with an open mouth and dark eyes. Her smile was wicked.

“You look confused.” She noted in a low voice, and if he’d thought she sounded like sex when he’d first talked to her, it was _nothing_ compared to now. “Are you?”

“No.” He replied with an easy, arrogant smile, “Just admiring the view.” He leant forwards and caught her wrist, pulling her back towards him, wrapping her in his arms, and the flames dulled.

At once it was something slow and caring, and at once they were so thankful for it. The time would come for desperation and fire, but that was not today. No, there was something special about a first, and he had every intention to make this a _very_ special one. He followed her earlier movements, slowly moving her onto her back, pulling her jeans down her legs. And he crawled his way back up her body, a line of kisses marking his progress. Her knee, her hipbone, navel, sternum, throat and mouth.She regained control, then. It seemed that even without the fire, there would always be this easy to-and-fro, taking turns in torturing the other, being in charge. She sat up and she was sitting across his lap, her legs around his hips, his legs stretching over the bed, almost to the pillows. She did not drop his gaze for a moment as she reached behind herself and undid the small clasp, allowing the lacy garment to slide off her arms and to the floor.

He gaped at her. There was no other word for it. He looked up at her with dark eyes, nothing short of adoration. Their kisses became desperate again, the perfect balance between flames and gentle, and his arms were so tight around her she thought she might break. But she would have not minded, no, she would have loved that. To have him see her in her basest form, in all the pieces that made her whole, to have him able to touch her everywhere. When he ducked his head, kissing down her throat, and her collar, and then _god_ — She let out a low whine, “ _James_ —” She choked off abruptly again, not being able to end the thought, much less the sentence. His movements were rough, greedy even, but so were hers, and underneath all of them was that gentleness from before. It didn’t take much after that. Both so eager, so tired of waiting, already almost there. It was a tangle of kisses and touches and curses in the twilight of the room’s low light. Fast and desperate, gentle and slow, hungry and savage, until they both collapsed in a heap, at last exhausted, at last sated – for now. Natasha’s voice was lazy as she spoke. Her hand was braced on his chest, feeling his slowing heartbeat One of his arms was wrapped around her, resting on her hip, the other tucked behind his head. One of her legs was draped across his own under the covers, and still, somehow, she had not a hair out of place.

“I’ve never had an American before.” She noted lightly. He grinned down at her,

“Oh?”

“It’s nothing personal.” She told him, “I just don’t date much.”

“Are you starting to regret that now?” He asked with a smile, “I mean, I’m pretty awesome.”

“You’re not bad.” She shrugged, seemingly uninterested, and he stared at her, affronted.

“ _Not bad?_ ” He asked indignantly, and she laughed, nodding.

“Not bad.” She conceded, leaning up to kiss his jaw lightly. “You taste like freedom.” She added with another laugh. She had a beautiful laugh. He was so glad that he was the one to make her laugh and smile so much. Now that he knew what she had endured as a child, he was relieved he could make her happy.

“And you taste like cranberries.” He replied. She always tasted like cranberries. Her lips, her skin, _everywhere_. “But I’ve always wondered what freedom tasted like.”

Her grin was dark and savage, but the sort that he was addicted to by this point, and she moved to straddle him, her hands either side of his head.

“I’d be happy to tell you.” She said, “Of course, I’ll have to… _remind_ myself. And I don’t give favours without expecting them to be returned.”

“I never would have thought otherwise.” He replied, and leant up to caress her cheek as he kissed her again. Cranberries. He had expected nothing less.


	13. Vermillion Content (I Could Stay Here Forever)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Now the hype for _The Pits_ seems to have officially died down, but that doesn't mean we love our Scarlet Starlet and our It-Boys any less! Especially when umours are flying that the Starlet has found herself a _man_! Spotted frequently in the upper-class part of town, the pair are a source of intrigue and jealousy alike! Who is this mystery man? Is he an old friend? Another star we have yet to deduce? Or perhaps an adoring fan who managed to catch one of those gorgeous emerald eyes? We can't bear the waiting, but it seems like Romanoff's not going to be sharing any secrets any time soon. Boo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this one is pure mindless fluff and a _teensy_ bit of semi-smuttiness. Enjoy!

The next morning, Bucky awoke with a complete and total sense of content, some he, in all honesty, was not overly used to. Not that he disliked it.

Noting that his left arm was pinned down by something, he turned his head to see Natasha curled into his side, red hair splayed across his shoulder and some of her pillow, sleeping soundly. Impossibly, she still looked perfect, as though they’d merely fallen asleep together and nothing remotely interesting had happened. Not a hair was out of place.

As though sensing she was being watched, Natasha opened her eyes slowly, blinking at him, and as the memory of the previous night returned, she gave him a lazy, contented smile. He grinned down at her. Her cherry hair, rosy lips, glittering eyes, all so beautiful. Her curves and her smile, her mind and her soul. Utterly gorgeous.

“Morning, soldier.” She murmured, blinking her emerald eyes slowly. _He’s beautiful_ , she thought to herself, _beautiful and wonderful and all mine._ His soft brown eyes, his smirking smile, tangled hair, muscular physique, his sense of humour and his mind. All hers, and she loved it. She raised a hand to card her fingers through his hair, before placing the palm on his cheek and pulling him down for a slow, sated kiss.

“Mornin’, beautiful.” He replied, his voice low and husky and, yeah, a little scratchy. She smiled at that; his accent was a lot thicker in the morning, it seemed. And she rather liked it. Their foreheads touched and they just lay there for a moment, breathing slow and calm, the same air, nothing separating them under the thick duvet of her bedspread. His hand was firm on the curve of her waist, his other – originally, in sleep, tucked behind his head – moving to rest semi-chaste on her thigh, her leg thrown over both of his. One of her hands was braced on the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers, the other stroking the back of his head, enjoying the feeling of the short hair under her fingertips. They were both utterly, and completely content.

“I think I’d give just about anything’…” He said slowly, grinning down at her, “To stay here. Right here, forever.”

She smiled back up at him, the hand braced on his chest tracing laze patterns. He was not overly broad, and didn’t have the same dramatic silhouette as Steve. Honestly, she preferred it; easier to wrap her arms (and legs) around. He wasn’t especially muscular, either, but he wasn’t scrawny by any measure of the word. She smiled to herself, reminded of a fairy tale involving a lot of porridge. He was _just right_.

Natasha tilted her head up to kiss him again; chaste and quick, and she grinned, “I think I would, too.” She replied. “Just you and me.”

Bucky flashed her the arrogant half-smile that she’d grown so fond of, it made her weak at the knees, and he kissed the tip of her nose, “I’ve got nowhere to be.” He told her. She took that information to heart in the best way possible, moving so she was straddling him, both of them cosy inside their little cocoon of warmth, and she kissed him. Long and slow but not remotely chaste. His hands wrapped around her torso, pulling her closer, one around her lower back, the other resting on the nape of her neck, fisted in her curls. She pulled apart for the briefest of moments to mutter one phrase, before leaning down and capturing his lips again.

“Thank god.”

* * *

And that was that. The next six months were a whirlwind. Small jobs for small shows, a string of never-ending offers for upcoming films, everyone wanting a piece of Hollywood’s new favourite. Bucky almost felt like he was getting whiplash from being battered at every angle; his agent forwarding call after call from movie studios, television shows, radio stations and – he was equal parts flattered and mortified – several magazines desiring exclusive statements, and pictures of him in various stages of undress.

And at least twice a week, he met up with Natasha. Dinner, a movie, or a simple walk around the town, all ending with a trip back to her place or his, and a very enjoyable morning-after. He’d never had a girlfriend before and he was equal parts grateful and ashamed, because whilst nothing could measure up to Natasha, he was sort of regretting missing out on these simple, _wonderful_ pleasures. Getting to know her in the most intimate way possible, her getting to know him just as intimately. Waking up with her curled into his side, beautiful and his alone to admire, and he being hers.

He was in a committed, adult relationship for the first time in his life, and he wouldn’t change it for the _world_.

* * *

“Mornin’, gorgeous.” Natasha, standing in the kitchen of Bucky and Steve’s shared apartment, and wearing nothing but one of Bucky’s t-shirts and a pair of panties, let out a surprised squeak when a pair of arms wrapped around her waist from behind, and pulled her close. She recognised his vice, his smell, his shape against her back soon enough, and melted into his embrace with a smile and a contented _mmm_.

“Morning, yourself.” She replied with a lazy grin. He chuckled, his face buried into the crook of her neck, his laughter ticklish against her skin. He, too, was wearing a shirt, but since panties weren’t exactly decent, and Steve had asked more than once not to have to risk emotional scarring in his own home, Bucky was instead in tracksuit bottoms. They covered him, but they were thin, and did little to hide his case of morning wood. Not that she was complaining. She was complaining even less when he stopped laughing against her neck, and started kissing it instead, a hand under her chin, tilting her head up to allow him better access.

It was too early in the morning for her to be discreet, and her whines were entirely unrestrained, because he _knew_ that was a sensitive spot and he _knew_ she always cried out when he kissed her there. She had been about to pick up her cup of coffee from the counter when he’d hugged her, but now she left it there, instead raising one of her arms to fist it in his hair and pull her mouth to his, her other covering one on her stomach.

The whines at the back of her throat became moans when his hand went lower, and he brushed at her through her panties. He groaned low in his throat, evidently appreciative of the sounds she was making, and his hand slipped under the fabric. The effect was instantaneous and he wondered vaguely how he’d ended up like this, so confident around _her_ of all people; gorgeous and seemingly unattainable. And yet, here he was, and _god_ if the sounds she made weren’t the best things he’d ever heard.

It soon became too much for her, and she turned around in his embrace, fisting her hands in his shirt and pulling him tight against her, her kisses needy. His hand was still there, and she was urging him on with the little whimpers and whines in the back of her throat. Given another few minutes, no doubt she would have pushed his pants down, he would have lifted her onto the counter, and they would have screwed right in the middle of the kitchen. Given another few minutes.

“Oh _come on_ , guys! We _eat_ here!” Steve’s voice, uneasy and disgusted, reached their ears and wrenched them out of their thought-consuming desire. With an expression of only mild surprise, Natasha broke the kiss and looked over Bucky’s shoulder to see Steve with his hand over his eyes, grimacing. She was already pushed back against the counter – through Bucky had since withdrawn his hand from her underwear. He didn’t trust himself to look at Steve and was so staring blankly ahead as though fixated on a point out of the window above the sink.

Natasha, ever imperturbable, gave an easy smile. “Sorry,” She apologised, not exactly insincere, but unconcerned, and the smile she gave Steve was dazzling. He gave her a semi-sincere glare. She then pushed Bucky lightly on the chest, and he took a step back, allowing her to move herself from in between him and the counter. She then took his hand, intertwining their fingers, and walked right past Steve, close enough to touch him, dragging Bucky behind her. As she passed Steve she added, “We’ll be good, next time.” And the glare become entirely sincere.

Bucky’s shock had worn off by the time they were back in his bedroom, and he was half in stitches from containing his laughter. He was sat on the end of his bed, shaking his head almost ruefully as she made sure his bedroom door was _closed_. When she turned to him, leaning against the door and biting her lip mischievously, his grin grew wider, and he laughed again.

“What?” She asked, grinning at him, sauntering over to kneel on the edge of the bed, straddling his lap. The laughter died in his throat and he gaped up at her, brown eyes black with want, lips already swollen with kisses, hands slowly running up and down her sides. “D’you find something… _funny?_ ” Her voice was low, and all the control he’d had over her in the kitchen, she now had over him.

“Uh-uh.” He muttered numbly, still gazing up at her. She smiled, predatory and wicked. She ducked her head down to kiss him, only for a moment, and he chased her when she broke apart, making her chuckle.

“I was thinking,” She said softly, “It’s been six months – or it will be, come Saturday.” She smiled down at him, “I was thinking… we could do something?” There was still the predatory glint in her eyes, but right now her expression was shy, quizzical.

Bucky grinned at her, “I’m almost offended,” He told her, “That you think I’d put _anything_ in my life above you.” He leant forwards and kissed the hollow of her throat, making her whine again, “I’m also kind of flattered,” He continued, murmuring the words into her skin. “That you think I have a social life.”

Natasha pulled back and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, “Really?” She asked, “Most popular guy in Hollywood and you don’t have a social life?”

He shrugged, “You’re all the social life I need.” He grinned, fully aware that it was a terrible line – only it wasn’t a line. It was true, and they both knew it, and they both chuckled. “Still,” He continued, “I like that. I’ll come pick you up on Saturday, special night out.” He then tightened his grip on her waist and leant back, pulling her down on top of him. She cried out in surprise, even more so when he rolled over so he was atop her.

“As for right now…” He continued, “I’ll settle for a special morning in.” And when he leant down to kiss her again, they weren’t interrupted.

* * *

On Saturday evening, Bucky was in a tux again, complete with a bow tie (which, he was pleased to note, he had by this point learned to tie himself), exiting a cab in front of Natasha’s building, giddier than ever before. The nerves he’d felt before their first date? Insignificant. Before their first meeting? Incomparable. When he’d first talk to her on the phone? Okay, that was a contender. But still, something about this night seemed so… _big_. He’d never gone out with a girl for this long before, and Natasha wasn’t the type to celebrate insignificantly. They’d celebrated the end of filming, and the release of the film, because they were real _accomplishments_. She celebrated things she considered things to be proud of.

They hadn’t celebrated one month. Or two. Or three, or four, or five. Three months was nothing; a high-school relationship, easily (not that he’d had any particularly long-time girlfriends even then), but six months? Especially in the fickle world of showbiz, that _really_ felt like an accomplishment, and he was worried he was going to _muck this up royally_.

“Hey, it’s the Brooklynite.” Jaime the ‘bellhop’ was out on her usual break when he arrived – he often saw her, as he always picked up Natasha at seven on a Saturday. He grinned a hello to her, and she nodded her reply with a smile.

“How’re you doing?” He asked her. Once or twice Natasha had asked him to wait five minutes whilst she came down to him, and he and Jaime would often talk to pass these minutes. She worked in the building to put herself through college – she was studying engineering. She’d had a crappy boyfriend when he’d first passed her, and their first real conversation had been a detailed account of her kicking his “sorry, lying ass into the gutter where it belongs”. Needless to say, the girl had made an impression.

“Not as good as you, apparently.” Was Jaime’s reply gesturing vaguely to his tux. He flashed her a nervous grin,

“Do I look okay?” He asked, “It’s… it’s kind of an important evening.” Jaime laughed.

“A million bucks, pal. You’ll be fine.” She then returned to her cigarette, as Natasha had just come down from her apartment, looking _absolutely gorgeous_.

He’d thought she was beautiful when he’d first met her, he’d found her jaw-dropping at the premiere, on their first, second and third dates. She’d been staggering when writhing beneath him calling his name and for more of _him_. She was wonderful in his shirts (which honestly always looked so much better on her, paired just with her panties) but that, all of that, was nothing, _nothing_ , compared to how she looked right now.

Her dress was shimmering white, like freshly fallen snow on a clear morning. It glittered in the gentle light and made her look like an angel – no, she _was_ an angel. He knew that for sure, now. It had one shoulder – the left – and the top half was folded in a ruffle pattern like a Greek toga. Her back was exposed to almost her tailbone and there was a slit high up on her left thigh. Curving around from her right torso to the slit on the left side were three lines of silvery sequins. Her make-up was minimal save for the silvery shadow around her eyes, and the blood-red lipstick accenting her mouth. A plethora of silvery bracelets glittered on her right wrist, just like the silver kitten-heel sandals on her feet. Her hair was styled in scarlet ringlets piled atop her head, falling down her neck and bobbing softly with the slightest movement. He half expected a halo to be glittering above her head. Instead, she had a small silver clutch purse, inside which was a silvery shawl in case she got chilly – but Bucky would offer her his jacket before she became cold enough to admit she _was_ cold.

She gave him a dazzling smile as she exited the building, and had he been able to focus on anything but Natasha, he would’ve seen that Jaime’s jaw had also dropped. She had the good grace, however, to stub out her cigarette there and then (it was almost finished anyway) and discreetly re-enter the building, allowing the pair some privacy.

“You look…” Bucky began, but he literally had no words. She was _astounding_. Utterly gorgeous. But even these words seemed insufficient to portray the awe, the wonder, the desire, the _adoration_ he was feeling in this moment. But, as they say, _the eyes are the window to the soul_ , and Natasha could see clearly in his eyes just how much he loved how she looked. She blushed a little, because she’d been hoping for a reaction like this. Whilst she liked to dress up nice once in a while just for herself, it was kind of _fun_ getting dressed up for him. She liked impressing him, and it was empowering to see the look on his face when he saw her.

“Right back atcha.” She replied with a smile. He did indeed look _very_ handsome in what she presumed was the same tux from the premiere. He cut a dashing figure, and his hair was combed back – he could almost have come from the forties. He flashed her his cocky half-smile and extended his arm.

“Thought we could go to the Triskelion.” He said, “It’s not too far from here, and you look lovely in the moonlight.” He added, ducking to murmur in her ear. She grinned up at him. The Triskelion was the finest hotel in the city, and sported a Michelin-star restaurant to boot. He’d taken the liberty of booking one of their suites for the entire weekend. He told her this much as they walked, only realising at the last minute that that might be unfortunate – surely she hadn’t brought a change of clothes.

But no, she was sneaky as a spy and twice as cunning. As James would later discover, she had all she needed in that little clutch purse of hers. Silk lingerie didn’t take up much room.

“So, what’re you in the mood for tonight?” He asked her as they drew closer to the Triskelion. Natahsa looked at him with her wickedly green eyes and smiled like she wanted to devour _him_ tonight. _Maybe she does_ , Bucky thought, _and I would be entirely okay with that_. She smiled at him with ruby lips and replied in a voice so sultry it should have been illegal.

“Room service.”

And he’d thought he couldn’t fall in love with her any more. Every time. Every time he thought he couldn’t _possibly_ love her more than he did, something happened and _god_ he just did. It was the same for her, as well. Usually she didn’t say _I love you_ all that easily. And she sure as _hell_ never said it first. But hey, there was a first time for everything. And every time she was sure that she had given her entire capacity of love to him, he surprised her and she found she could and _did_ love him even more.

It was almost too good to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, would love to know what you think, and if you're interested in my inspiration for Natasha's dress:  
> http://www.davidress.org/images/thumbnails/prom-dresses/white-a-line-one-shoulder-open-back-sweep-train-floor-length-evening-dresses-with-beading-and-high-slit-prom01008.jpg


	14. Rouge Rough-Patch (Paradise Ain't Perfect)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Filming for the second installment in the _Caden and the Rebels_ series, _The Pits: Revolution_ had been slow going ever since Natasha Romanoff, the Scarlet Starlet, took a major co-starring role in director Peggy Carter's crime-thriller, _Budapest_. Rumours have it that she'll be having a steamy love interest with one of the male actors - will this be her mystery man? At any rate, it's gotta feel good to be back in front of the camera!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I have officially run out of English synonyms for _red_ and have moved over into French (tbh I still have no idea how much longer this fic is gonna be so for all I know I'll have to move over to Latin or something at another point). But I digress; enjoy!

There’s a reason they say _too good to be true_. Bucky had never really appreciated the meaning of that phrase, because his whole _life_ seemed too good to be true. Living with his best friend, a well-known actor, pretty good looking (he didn’t read gossip magazines about himself, _he didn’t_ ), and to top it all off: in a fun, sexy, wonderful relationship with a fun, sexy, _wonderful_ woman.

But sooner or later, that rollercoaster’s gonna come down.

And for James Bucky Barnes, he was just at the top of that hill.

* * *

It was a morning like any other. Well, not exactly. Bucky still wasn’t quite _used_ to the idea of waking up with Natasha curled into his side every morning. Honestly he didn’t _want_ to get used to it. The sensation of opening his eyes to the light streaming through the curtains, and realising another warm form was under the covers with him, turning to see her there, so peaceful and delicate in sleep. The alarm (or more accurately, the buzzing of his phone on vibrate) never woke her; she needed something loud, or to be moved.

Not that he _wanted_ to move. She was gorgeous, as always, right there. Hanging on his arm and honestly that was where he thought she looked best. Right next to him. He was a junkie, and she was his high. He flexed the shoulder she was using as a pillow, and, as always, that woke her up quicker than any alarm would. She opened her eyes slowly and grinned up at him, still hazy with sleep.

“Morning, soldier.” She grinned at him, and he ducked his head for a good morning kiss, murmuring his Brooklyn reply as he always did. Then, agonisingly, she pulled herself free from their tangle of limbs and set about getting ready for her day. She tended to sleep in a tank top and shorts, and he lay in bed, watching her walk around the room, stripping off her sleeping clothes and pulling on new, fresh ones for the day. He loved that he could be here, that she could so naturally just strip down and pull on new clothes without any concern about him being there (not that she had to worry. If he had his way, she’d never leave the bed ever again. Same went for if she got _her_ way, too). They were so confident around one another, so sure and so natural. It was wonderful.

Natasha turned to him, now dressed, hairbrush in hand, and began brushing her bright red curls back into a ponytail, “I hate you.” She said matter-of-factly, and he laughed. “You get to stay in here all day and I can’t be here to take advantage of that.”

Bucky shrugged, “It’s your own fault for taking that part.” He told her, and she rolled her eyes,

“Well, I could hardly turn it _down_.” She pointed out, “I _work_ for Avengers Studios, for one thing. And it’s _so good_.” She insisted, almost like a teenaged girl having a tantrum.

“So you have no right to complain.” He shrugged, still lying in the bed, hair mussed up _so perfectly_ and that grin on his face which he _knew_ she loved. She scowled at him, but she was close enough to the bed that when he outstretched a hand, he caught her around her wrist and pulled her down so she was lying across him, basically in his lap. He laughed down at her as she scowled.

“It’s your own fault.” He said again, “But if it makes you feel any better, even if you _hadn’t_ taken that part, we’d still be getting up.” It was true. _Caden and the Rebels_ had been signed on for a sequel almost immediately, and five months after the release of the first one, the script for the second had been finalised and filming had commenced. Four months later, they were two-thirds into filming and _very_ busy. But, Natasha, ever a workaholic (though considerably less so once she had a gorgeous boyfriend to come home to every night) had taken on a wonderful sounding part in one of the studios other projects, a spy being directed by her long-time colleague (and very good friend) Peggy Carter. As if the fact it wasn’t being directed from one of her favourite directors, the story was solid, and she had been itching to get back into the acting game ever since standing in for Yelena (the tabloids were still wondering who that was, it had become a fun little game amongst the cast).

“Yeah, but filming doesn’t start ‘til ten, anyway.” She shrugged. Even without the director herself on set, she had enough confidence in her cast and her friend Clint that they could manage without her for the last few weeks of filming with Carter. She only filmed that movie three days a week, anyway. “Which means we’d have three whole _hours_ to do what and _who_ we want before having to come in.”

“The price of the camera, _Natalia_.” Bucky replied with a grin, and he enjoyed seeing her pupils dilate. He was calling her that more and more now. It rolled off of his tongue like honey and it was a sure-fire way to get her hot and (depending on locale) bothered in equal measure. “But we’ll both be finished by eight, right? We can spend some _quality time_ together then.”

Natasha kissed him again, slow and deep, “Okay.” She murmured, pulling away, “I’ll see you tonight, soldier. Don’t make me wait.”

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?” He asked with a mischievous grin that made it _that much harder_ for her to stand up and leave him there. In their bed. In his underwear. Practically _asking_ for her to ruin him. _Damn him_ , she thought as she walked out of her apartment.

Bucky decided to have a lazy morning, as he often did. Filming started at ten for – honestly, he didn’t know why, it just did. Something about a scheduling conflict with Yelena, if he remembered, but what studio filmed from six-to-ten in the morning? – some reason, but he didn’t mind that because it meant he could take a few hours to just relax. Of course, it’d be a lot _easier_ to relax with Natasha around. He’d moved into her apartment just after the seven-month mark on their relationship. Honestly, it had been Steve’s idea after he’d walked in on Bucky eating something besides cereal in the kitchen one morning. That had been the last straw for Rogers, and he’d demanded that they just “move in with each other already” before he “went blind”.

Plus, Bucky was fairly sure he wanted to sneak his own dates home. He was pretty sure Anthony Stark lived on the other side of town, but the guy was hanging out at Steve’s more and more.

* * *

Completely by luck, filming on the set of _Rebels_ finished early that day (Bucky would’ve bet it had something to do with Yelena, who – unfortunately – had a much larger part this time around and was more than a _bit_ of a diva, only he didn’t gamble) and Bucky decided he’d go surprise Natasha by picking her up from Carter’s set a few blocks over. The size of Avengers Studios’ filming grounds was larger than most college campuses, and purely because of genre, Natasha’s set in a modern-day spy film (god, if she wasn’t born to play the sultry, cunning spy, then Bucky didn’t know who _was_ ) was a considerable walk from the dusty, dystopian-meet-steampunk atmosphere of _Rebels_.

When he entered the set of the film – he rather liked the title; _Budapest_ – he was instructed to keep a very watchful eye of the luminous tape, lest he end up partially in the shot. He was fully expecting to see Natasha in the uniform she’d been stuffing into a backpack every morning – the matte leather catsuit that zipped all the way from her neck to way, _way_ below her navel (she’d promised to keep one of those things after filming concluded), or maybe dolled up in an evening dress; seducing information out of beaurecrats, or possibly a no-nonsense business suit. Long story short, he did _not_ expect her to be pushed up against a wall, that catsuit half-unzipped to her sternum, barely decent, her tongue down _some guy’s throat_ —

“Cut!” Peggy Carter’s voice, the director’s voice, cool and calm and British, it slashed through the horror and anger running through his mind. Natasha pushed the guy away like nothing, but it wasn’t _cold_ , it wasn’t meaningless, and she pulled the zip up to her collar again. She patted down her mussed hair and wiped her mouth on the edge of her sleeve.

Then her eyes met Bucky’s.

* * *

“What the **_hell_** was _that?!_ ” Bucky exploded the moment they walked in the door of their apartment. He’d driven them home in stormy silence, barely looked at her, silenced her with a glare every time she opened her mouth. She’d never seen him like this before; so angry. Sure, they had spats, every couple did. But it was nothing _serious_. She’d zone out when he was talking, or he’d forget to take out the trash. Stupid little stuff that made them nip at one another.

No, this was entirely different.

“Answer me, Nat!” He demanded, “What was that?”

“Acting!” She snapped in reply, “I’m an actress, James! I kiss other actors when my job requires it! And so do _you!_ ”

“Not since you!” Bucky retorted, “Don’t you get it? I haven’t kissed _anyone_ since we started dating! Not even acting!” He ran his hands through his hair and swore. “And you don’t even _trust_ me! You _lied_ about it!”

“I didn’t _lie!_ ” Natasha glared at him, “You never asked!”

“Are you _kidding_ me with that excuse?” He exclaimed, “I never _asked?_ I shouldn’t _have_ to ask! I would’ve told _you_!”

“I _get_ that, I’m _sorry_.”

“No, I don’t wanna hear if you’re sorry.” He wasn’t shouting, his voice was low and controlled and he was glaring at her. “I wanna know if you were going to tell me. If you were going to say you were kissing another guy.”

Natasha was silent for a very long moment. Too long. His eyes widened, “Oh my _god_ , Nat—”

“I’m sorry.” She cut across. “I’m _sorry_ , James. I… I freaked out. I haven’t had to kiss actors for years when I read the script I freaked out, and I know that’s a lame excuse but… It’s the truth. I...” She dropped his gaze, “I’m sorry I lied. You can sleep round Steve’s tonight if you want. I get it.”

Bucky blinked. Once, twice, three times. Not quickly, but he measured the pause. Four. Five.

“Drop the part.” He said blankly. She looked up at him

“What?”

“Why not?” He insisted, “If it makes you feel so guilty… Drop it.” And why not? If she felt so guilty that she’d _lie_ to him about it, if he felt so jealous that, for one moment, he _forgot_ it was all just acting. God, it’d taken every ounce of self-control he’d had not to punch that guy in his smirk. “You’re mine, remember? You’re all mine and I’m all yours and I don’t want you to feel like you’re compromising that. Just… drop the part. Peggy’ll understand. Just… drop it.”

And she looked up at him like she was heartbroken.

"Look, James... I was guilty when I kissed him because you didn’t know. I was worried you… you would think I cheated on you. But you don’t. I should’ve known you’d understand…” She smiled at him and touched his cheek, “I don’t deserve you.” She told him. “Because… I can’t drop that part.”

He looked at her, confused and appalled, “What?” He asked, his voice a hushed whisper. “Natasha, why—”

“I _love_ acting, James.” She told him, “I hadn’t acted for _years_ until I stepped in for Yelena and I loved it. And I love it now, I love Peggy, she’s a wonderful friend and director… I can’t drop the part.”

“But… you’ll have to kiss him again.” Bucky said in a small voice, and she nodded solemnly.

“I know. And I don’t like it. I don’t like him. I like _you_ , I _love_ you.” She sighed, “There's a balance to everything, okay? I... I _love_ it when you tell me I'm yours." Her hands were around his waist now, and she was looking up at him. They could both think of any number of moments when he'd said that. Whispered into her ear in the violet twilight of sleep, growled it in the red flames of their desire, muttered it like a prayer in the pitch darkness where all they had to go on was touches and sounds and tastes. "And I _love_ to call you mine," She continued, her voice with just a hint of possession, desire. "But I still want to do this part. It’s a good film. And I _promise_ in the future, I’ll tell you if I have to… kiss anyone. It was a stupid mistake. And you know I don’t _do_ stupid mistakes.”

It was true, she didn’t. But that didn’t mean he was still loving the idea of her kissing someone else. Even if he knew it was all make believe, even if, logically, he knew it meant nothing. Love was not logical.

"But what if it was _me_?" He demanded. Was this still an argument? They were both so calm, still standing close, hugging one another, even. But these were not tender words. It was so bizarre. "What if I was... I was making out with some gorgeous blonde? What if me and Yelena had had a sex scene?"

Her eyes glittered with anger, but not at him, and he could have sworn they turned greener. She glared at him half-heartedly and sighed.

“I see your point." She muttered, "It's not easy, I respect that. But I still wouldn't ask you to leave the film if you didn’t want to. We're young and we're sexy. We're _going_ to be cast for love scenes." She gave a tentative smile, "Hey, at least it's not Game of Thrones, right?" He didn't smile, but he didn't frown either.

"It's just... It's weird." He said lamely, "I know it's all make-believe, trust me, I _know_. But... Actors are professionals because they can lie. But when you were kissing him it looked—”

"It means nothing." She cut across in a promise. "It doesn't mean anything, it never has and it never will. I _swear_ to you, James. I _promise_ you, it's all for the camera." She leant in close with a mischievous smile, "And if you don't believe me, I can show you what _real_ looks like when we wrap up filming for the day." She whispered in his ear. His eyes widened and he swallowed slowly.

_Holy **crap**._

"I-I-I—” For a moment he couldn't find his voice. "I--okay." He said blankly, "But I'm still jealous, y'know. And pissed off."

She grinned at him, "I'd be worried if you weren't." She replied, "And for the record, when you and 'Shayera' _do_ get in the sack, I'm gonna be right there to drag you home and tie you up afterwards." He smiled down at her, suddenly feeling a lot better, and maybe a little empowered by the idea that Natasha, too, got jealous. And, yeah, the idea of her dragging him off and ruining him was more than a little appealing.

“…Okay.” He admitted grudgingly, “But you’d better not lie to me again.” He ducked his head, “And if you _do_ have to kiss that guy again… I expect compensation.” He kissed the soft skin just below her ear, and she whimpered.

“I don’t deserve you.” She muttered to herself, as he kissed further down her neck. “I really, _really_ don’t deserve you.” She continued, “How can you… Not complaining, but I lied and… most guys would be pissed…”

“I was.” He murmured, almost distractedly, as he continued trailing a line of kisses, “Still am.” _But not enough to care_ , he added. He trusted her. He did. And that was the only reason he was still here, because he didn’t trust that guy and he didn’t know Peggy but he knew Natasha and he loved her. “But I trust you. I only blame your acting skills.”

She laughed and pulled his head up from her collar, meeting her lips with his own. And suddenly all that anger, all that confusion and mistrust, it was forgotten. _Because that’s love_ , they thought to themselves, _it’s trust and it’s safe and it’s kind._ She loved him and he loved her. He was hers and she was his. And no amount of acting or playing at lovers or nervous, spontaneous, ill-thought lies was going to change that. She wasn’t going to let him go. He was the first real boyfriend she’d had in a long time. The first one who looked at her and saw more than a pretty face. Before, everyone had seen only her looks, or her damage. They pitied her or they lusted after her but they didn’t _love_ her.

James. He pitied her, too. He lusted after her, too. He saw her damage and her looks, too. But he saw _more_. So much more, than even she had. He saw strength, intelligence, wit, and _skill_. She had so much of all of them. And he was the first man she’d known – well, not entirely true, but the first man she’d loved – to see it. Clint had seen it, but they didn’t love each other. Not like this, at least. Steve, too. But James? He saw her as more than a pretty face. And _god_ she loved him more than anything.

And Natasha. The first real girlfriend he’d had. She didn’t see him as a cute, rich, famous actor who’d be fun for a night or two – granted, nothing about that description _detracted_ from her love for him, but he could say the same about her – she saw him as _him_. For his geeky little habits like the book coffins (god, she’d almost hyperventilated with laughter) to the mischievous sweet-talker from Brooklyn. She saw him as more than a rich lay. And _god_ he loved her more than anything.

But unfortunately for them, the roller coaster was still going down.


	15. Écarlate Rage (I Hate You, I Hate You, I Hate You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: As filming begins to wrap up for _Budapest_ everyone is very excited to see the Starlet Scarlet re-debut as an actress, as well as see if Peggy Carter, critically-acclaimed director, can produce another hit blockbuster. With these two strong, capable and gorgeous women working on the same project, it's bound to be a hit, and everyone's waiting with baited breath! In other news, _The Pits: Revolution_ is also almost finished in filming, but we still have a few months to go before it hits cinemas!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! The angst continues!! Taking ideas on how this all bubbles to a climax (pun possibly intended) and would love to know what y'all think!

Another two weeks passed, and they were good. They were normal. They smiled and laughed and talked and had sex. It was normal – for them. But in the same way it wasn’t. It was still mind-blowing. They were happy, they both felt it. They filmed _Budapest_ and _The Pits: Revolution_ , day in and day out. They woke up next to one another, morning sex if they had time. Then breakfast, work, maybe a quick lunch date, more work, then home for half-rushed conversations about their days whilst they ripped one another’s clothes off. It was fun, it was healthy, it was _good_.

Until… one morning.

* * *

It was the same as normal. Natasha got up, she showered. Bucky got up, too, since filming for _Revolution_ was starting earlier today. He was woken up not by his phone buzzing but Natasha prodding him in the side, and he saw her standing on his side of the bed, naked save for a pair of boyshorts panties, asking where the matching bra was. It was a bizarre but by no means unpleasant way to begin the day. After about five minutes they found said brassiere in _his_ underwear drawer and had a good long laugh about it, followed by his attempting to put it on her (“how to women _do_ this?”) and thus having to let Natasha take over and finish getting dressed whilst he made coffee.

In the kitchen, the morning continued, once more normally. He made their coffee (he had his black with two sugars; strong and sweet. She liked hers with lots of milk and one sugar) and she thanked him with a kiss when she walked out of their room, before settling about her breakfast. She was sitting across the table, spooning cereal into her mouth, when her phone buzzed. From the angle he was sat at, Bucky only saw the green icon that it was a text message before she picked it up and unlocked her phone to read it. Bucky watched as the slowed her chewing until she was frozen, her eyes darting from side to side as she read each line of the text. Even after they stopped moving, when she had finished reading, there was a long, _long_ moment before she swallowed and set her phone down again, looking very apprehensive.

“What is it?” He asked her around a mouthful of Choco-Pops (“Kids’ cereal, James? Really?” / “What? They’re chocolate for breakfast?”). She swallowed again, though her mouth was empty. This was nervousness and confusion.

“I… just got a text from Peggy. Reminding me that… I’m shooting a sex scene today.” She looked at him, her expression blank and confused, “I don’t remember that in the script.” She muttered, almost more to herself than to him. Then she shrugged and turned back to her cereal, “Just as well she reminded me, huh? So, yeah. Just so you know.” She offered him a small smile, but it died on her lips when she met his eyes and saw he wasn’t smiling back.

He looked at her, and for a moment everything was frozen. She could see the doubt in his eyes, because of what had happened two weeks ago. Everything had been so _good_. He trusted her, he _did_. Then he spoke, and, to his credit, it could have been a lot worse.

“Don’t remember? Or don’t _want_ to remember?”

Natasha looked at him, “ _James_.” She frowned a little, “You can’t _seriously_ think I’d lie to you about this? Again? I don’t repeat my mistakes. I’m not an idiot.”

“You lied about the kiss.” He pointed out dully.

“That was a kiss!” She exclaimed, starting to get angry. “That… actors kiss all the time! _Disney_ films have kissing! But… but _this?_ You think I wouldn’t tell you about getting in bed with another man?” She was offended frankly – no, not frankly. She _was_ offended. That he thought _this little_ of her? God, she’d kissed people at parties before when she’d been a teenager, it meant nothing. It was even _less_ here, because it was all for show. But this? This was different, she would _tell him_ about this.

But Bucky only narrowed his eyes, still just as angry, possibly even more so. “Thanks for the image.” He said tightly, “But I can’t tell if you’re lying. You lied before.”

“ABOUT A KISS!” She shouted, “Just spit it out, James! You don’t trust me! Do you?”

“Of course I trust you, I just—”

“You _don’t_.” She cut acorss him, “Otherwise you would believe me. I _forgot_ , okay? _I forgot_.” She was looking at him with fire in her eyes and she wasn’t going to back down. “Just admit it, you don’t trust me.”

Bucky glared right back at her, “Would it make you feel better if I said I didn’t?” He asked her, and she didn’t answer, only narrowed her eyes to furious slits.

“You don’t trust me.” She told him. “Do you _really_ think that… that if I get in bed with a guy, film a scene that is _entirely acting_ , I’m just going to forget you exist and go off with them?”

“You did with me.” He replied,

“ _You_. Kissed. **_Me_**.” She snapped, “ _You_ started it. _I_ didn’t kiss you.”

“Not at first.” He barely muttered the words, they were more to himself than to her, but she heard them.

“ _What did you say?_ ” She demanded, and her green eyes were cold as ice and stormy as the sea. He met her gaze. Because he didn’t know where this anger had come from but it was indomitable. All the anger they perhaps _should_ have vented two weeks ago, it had festered and grown, so deep under the surface that even _they_ didn’t know it was there. And now it was rising to the surface, bursting forth with so much more force and potency than it could have done before, coupled with newer anger from now. It was terrible and awful but something about it was almost as addictive as they were to each other, so they made no attempts to quell it.

“I said: _Not. At. First._ ” Bucky replied in a growl, matching her glare measure for measure, his tone icy. “But you did. You kissed me even though it was _supposed_ to be nothing. What’s to say you don’t kiss _him_ like that? What’s to say you don’t sleep with him for re—”

**_CRACK!_ **

He stopped talking. He shut up because she’d shut him up and she’d done so in the most effective but the most pathetic way possible. She’d slapped him. His head was turned sharply to the side from the blow. Bucky raised a hand to his stinging cheek, feeling tender flesh, and his eyes were wide as he turned back to face her. His expression might have broken her heart if she’d been able to feel anything other than rage. He looked hurt, betrayed, and furious.

“You hit me.” His voice was numb; dead and empty like a corpse. “You… _hit_ me.”

“Shut up.” She snapped, and if her anger had seemed terrible before, it was nothing compared to her rage now. “You don’t get to say that. _Any_ of that.”

“Natasha—”

“ _NO!_ ” She yelled, “YOU DON’T _GET_ TO ARGUE! NOT NOW! You _seriously_ think _that little_ of me? You distrust me _that much?_ ” She was looking at him with little more than disgust. “I thought you knew me better than that. But no. You think _that low_ of me. That I can’t tell the different between acting and real life.”

“ _Natasha_ —”

“No.” Her voice was calm now. In an instant, it was like she'd shut down; become an emotionless robot. Honestly he would have preferred her yelling. Screaming at him, beating his chest with her fists and sobbing. Anything other than _this_. This… numbness to her. Like she didn’t even care.

“You want real life?” She asked him. _No_ , he thought, _no, I don’t._ But he didn’t say it out loud because he was still _fuming_ – regardless of whether she had been lying about the sex scene. She had known at one point and had been _okay with it_. He would _never_ have done this to her. Kissing was one thing, a sex scene was something else.

“Hit me.” He snarled back at her. His hands were braced on the table and he was stood up, glaring at her with his hackles raised. He half wanted to slap her back, and half wanted to take her right here on the table. Currently these halves were warring so furiously it was all he could do to keep still and not make some wild jerking motion; half-hearted on both accounts (literally). "You already have, once." He added scathingly.

Natasha's eyes widened momentarily with anger and affront. "You want real life?" She asked again, and when he nodded challengingly she obliged. “ _Drop. **Dead**._ ” She snarled, and with that, she snatched up her coat, phone and backpack, and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her; a very loud note of finality.

“FINE!” Bucky yelled at the closed door, because he knew she would be able to hear him, and _god_ he just wanted her to _hurt_ like he was hurting. “THEN YOU CAN GO SHAG HIM WITHOUT HAVING TO WORRY ABOUT ME!” A low blow, perhaps, but he _really_ couldn’t give a crap.

* * *

“Dude, you look like you’re swallowing a lemon whole.” Steve’s voice was flat when Bucky arrived on set later that morning with a sour expression to match his stormy mood. After Natasha had left, he'd resigned to finishing his breakfast, glowering into his Choco-Pops as though they had decided to hurl abuse at him as he ate them. This had prompted a banal and ultimately ridiculous train of thought as to what Choco-Pops would sound like if they could speak, and if they would be eager to be eaten or not. This bizarre thought-train had pulled him from his anger for only a few minutes. So here he was now, fuming and in _no_ mind to film for the day, sat next to Steve in make-up and (apparently) looking like he was trying to swallow a lemon whole. But he could not care less, so he turned to Steve to glare at him, which was twice as threatening as normal when he was made up as Caden, complete with one white eye.

Steve actually recoiled. “Alright, alright.” He muttered, grimacing at the sight of his best friend, “Jeez, don’t do that as Caden. You’re even uglier than usual.”

“Not as ugly as you.” Bucky replied, but his voice was short and clipped and cold and lacking in all of the usual humour and levity. Steve frowned, now he knew something was _really_ wrong, but he had a distinct feeling that Bucky wasn’t going to talk. At least, not now. So for now he contented himself with keeping his distance, because he knew Bucky had a wicked temper when he was really pissed off (to be fair, _he_ had a pretty vicious one, too, if he got that angry, but didn’t everyone? The only real question was tolerance up until that point.) and wasn’t eager to provoke an explosion in public. Never mind the cast; there were press cameras _everywhere_ – or at least, they were _trying_ to be. They usually got caught, but not always., and Steve wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to have his best friend’s bad day plastered across the magazines, painting him as an unstable maniac with anger issues.

He knew they would. Scandals always sold the best.

Yet he was equally concerned for the well-being of his friend, and was anxious to make sure there wasn’t anything seriously wrong. But that was easier said than done when they were both busy filming and in public and neither of them were keen on the idea of talking about anything remotely important when there was a camera around – and he didn’t just mean the ones being operated by the film crew. So he kept his silence and watched his best friend stew angrily over the course of the morning. Come lunch time Bucky seemed no less furious, but Steve was more confident that he wouldn’t explode so much that they’d attract any attention.

“Bucky,” He said, walking over to his friend, “What happened?”

Bucky turned to him, and Steve realised that he wasn’t just _angry_. He was sad. And hurting. And he looked so completely _wrong_. Bucky wasn’t supposed to be angry or in pain. He was fun and light and safe and secure. They were closer than brothers and they’d _always_ been like that. Something was seriously wrong.

“Buck…” Steve’s voice was almost pitiful. “What… what _happened?_ ” The same phrase but with so much more meaning. He could tell something was seriously wrong when Bucky didn’t even _try_ to hide his upset. There was a fire in his eyes, one Steve had only seen after Bucky had met Natasha, and it blazed so wrongly now; not with excitement or desire but with fury and sorrow.

“Me and Natalia…” He muttered. Steve had noticed that he’d been called Natasha by her real name more and more. She’d Anglicised it upon moving to the United States – almost a stage name, only anyone who’d heard of the Scarlet Starlet would recognise the original form. _Natalia Romanova_. “We… had a fight.”

Steve blinked. Bucky and Natasha had fought before, but he’d never seen his friend so cross and upset before. “What-what was it about?”

Bucky sighed. He would’ve dragged a hand down his face if not for the fact that it would move the scar on his cheek and neck (thoroughly pissing off the tiny and very terrifying make-up lady, Melinda). But he sighed, and it was the most defeated sound Steve had ever heard out of his friend’s mouth. Bucky _never_ gave up. On _anything_. He followed everything through until the end.

…Unless he thought it already _was_ the end.

“You know Peggy’s film? _Budapest_?” Bucky asked him, and Steve nodded. Peggy was an… old flame of his. They’d known one another since college – same place he’d met Natasha, actually, though between them there’d never been any attraction. The only reason Bucky hadn’t known the girls too was because they’d gone to different colleges. “Well, Natalia’s got a major role, like a co-star.”

“Right…” Steve had a vague idea that he knew where this was going. Whilst Bucky and Natasha had made up about the kiss thing, Bucky had still _told_ Steve about it. He suddenly had a very uneasy feeling in his stomach. Surely she hadn’t cheated on Bucky? Surely _Bucky_ hadn’t cheated on _her?_

“And… she got a text this morning about filming a sex scene for the film. She says she forgot and I don’t know if that’s true or not but she’s still _filming_ it.” Upon hearing this, Steve thought very long and very hard before he so much as opened his mouth in reply. He, as an impartial third party, could see exactly where the fight was going. Bucky and Natasha were in a relationship, naturally her having to film a love scene with another actor would be a… delicate matter to discuss.

“You… You know it’s just acting, right?” He said in a very careful tone. Bucky glared at him,

“Of _course_ I know it’s acting.” He snapped, “But that’s not the _point_. She’s filming a love scene and she…” _She didn’t ask me about it. She didn’t tell me about it. She’s doing it anyway._ There were so many angles buzzing at him inside his own mind that he couldn’t take it. Steve put a hand on his shoulder and spoke in his best neutral voice.

“Natasha’s a grown woman and can make her own choices, Buck.” He pointed out, “You should respect her enough to let her make them.” And that was even _worse_ because she’d _said as much_ and added that she’d let _him_ make _his_ choices, too. He was just so angry that he could barely think straight.

“Just _talk_ with her—” Steve was continuing, but Bucky didn’t hear him. He shrugged off his friend’s hand roughly and stormed off to eat his lunch on his own. The anger that had only somewhat quelled since that morning and now returned with a vengeance. _She doesn’t get to do this_ , he fumed. She didn’t get to distract him this much. If he let himself get distracted them she would win and that was the one thing that _could not happen_.

* * *

Natasha was having a thoroughly crappy day, herself. Having stalked onto the set of _Budapest_ exuding the most potent _leave me alone_ atmosphere possible from a woman, everyone was giving her an especially wide berth. Even the young man doing her makeup didn’t dare look her in the eye, nor strike up a conversation about his twin sister and her fascination with magic tricks.

Except Peggy Carter. Possibly the least no-nonsense woman on the face of the Earth – dangerously on par with Natasha, the two were formidable at the best of times. But when Natasha was in a bad mood and not feeling the least bit cooperative, Peggy was going to begrudge her this tantrum. She didn't have time for this; not when on the set of _her_ million-dollar-movie project that was _two weeks_ from hitting the editing studio. So when Natasha came out of her dressing room, huffily tugging the zip of her costume up to her collar, Peggy was standing there with a glint in her eye and a question on her lips.

“What’s going on?”

The question sounded a lot harsher and more threatening when coming from Peggy’s mouth. Never mind her impressive and very intimidating stance, her British accent made the phrase sound especially cool. Natasha usually found this agreeable; someone with as sharp a tongue as her own was a good conversationalist, in her opinion. But today she just _could not be bothered_ and attempted to just walk by her director as though she hadn’t noticed her.

Peggy moved to stand in front of Natasha, “I said, what’s going on?” She repeated her question more forcefully. Natasha glared at her,

“I had a fight with my boyfriend this morning.” She replied, “He got pissed off, I got pissed off, here I am. Satisfied?” She raised her eyebrows in an expression that would have been mild if not the harsh line of her mouth. Peggy matched this with a grim, immovable visage.

“No, as a matter of fact.” Was her answer, “I can’t have my lead actress looking like she’s eating sour grapes when we’re filming a love scene.” She paused, “We can film something else this morning, go patch things up. I want you sugar and spice by this afternoon.”

Natasha’s glare intensified, “I don’t structure my love life according to my filming schedule.” She told her director, “I’m an actress, it’ll be fine.”

“It clearly won’t be.” Peggy replied, “I haven’t seen _anyone_ make Pietro shut up, even you. But you come in on a bad day and now he won’t even speak a word. This was a big argument, and it’s going to affect your acting.”

“It. _Won’t_.” Natasha said through gritted teeth, “I’ll be _fine_. At the very least let me film a take. If you’re still convinced I’m _off_ then I’ll go. _But I won’t be_.” Peggy rolled her eyes and gave a small, exasperating _tss_ through her teeth, but this seemed to mollify her at least a little. At the very least, they’d reached a compromised, but she wasn’t about to let anything compromise her film. Least of all an argument between one of her actors and their partner.

So Natasha marched out onto the set and tried to push behind her all the anger from an hour ago. It was easier said than done, frankly. Because _how dare_ James speak to her like that? How dare he think she was so uncaring and _shallow_ that simply _acting_ would be enough to make her forget all about him – half of her wanted that to be the case, just to spite him. The other half wanted to find him and shout at him some more. That would make her feel a _lot_ better.

But she couldn’t do either of those things, because then he’d win. She’d have proved him correct; that she couldn’t tell the difference between acting and reality. And if there was _one_ thing that she was _not_ going to let happen, it was let James win.

“ _Miss Romanoff, you’re needed on set._ ” Over the tannoy came her summons and she manoeuvred herself through the small maze that was their set; a luxurious apartment; home to her character, _Natalie Rushman_ : glamourous superspy and sultry companion to Special Agent Jones, played by the star of Peggy’s film, Dr Bruce Banner. Having gained a doctorate in genetic studies, he’d then pursued acting and found he had quite the talent. He seemed nice enough, Natasha supposed, but she wasn’t remotely attracted to him – which wasn’t to say he wasn’t good looking, he just wasn’t her type. Kissing him a few weeks back had felt so _wrong_ because of this, and because of James, but any intention she’d ever had of confessing it (in a somewhat cowardly move, she’d not brought up _Budapest_ since their little spat a fortnight ago) to James had vanished when he’d accused her of deliberately not informing him this morning.

But she was a professional. She was a world-renowed actress at the height of her career and skill. She wasn’t going to let an argument jeopardise her reputation nor sully her career. So she pushed aside the bizarre, vaguely cheating feelings, reminded herself that it was only acting, and let her real life fall away, slipping into the character of Ms Rushman. _The show must go on_ , she thought, as she put on her sultriest smile, and walked onto the set.

* * *

When the two spatting lovers returned to their shared apartment that evening, it was a veritable Cold War – which, given that she was Russian and he was American, was rather amusing. Neither of them so much as acknowledged the other, as though they were living in bubbles and could not perceive one another. They didn’t let their anger show, but neither did they show their hurt, their remorse, and their desire for contact. No. _That would mean she wins_ , Bucky thought. _That would mean he wins_ , Natasha thought. And that was the one thing that _could not happen_.


	16. Vermeil Lutte (Battle Ready)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Headline: Brrr! According to sources on the set of _The Pits: Revolution_ , it seems things are getting chilly with the star and director. Reports are coming in that all is not well with it-boy, Bucky Barnes and Scarlet Starlet, Natasha Romanoff. The friendship seen at the premiere of _The Pits_ seems to have all but disappeared – perhaps it has something to do with Romanoff’s mystery man. Doth we detect some jealousy? With filming set to wrap up in less than a month, we can only speculate.

She was heartsick.

God, she’d never admit it but she _was_. Two whole weeks of this cold, emotionless co-habitation, it was driving her _mad_. She hated going to bed without James’ arms around her, hated waking up without him, too. Hated eating alone, watching TV alone, not bothering with lunch dates. Suddenly there were _his_ friends and _hers_. And there was _her_ end of the sofa and _his_. No longer did he stretch out in his sleep, all arms and legs, claiming most of the mattress, but she didn’t mind because she’d hug him… No, he slept curled up in a tight little ball, not even facing her. She felt cold and vulnerable and _so alone_.

He hated it just as much, though he’d never admit it. He wanted so badly to pull her into his arms and kiss her, but he was too angry, too _furious_ , and he _would not_ let her win. No matter how much he missed being curled up on the sofa, watching cheesy movies. No matter how much he missed those languorous hours of lazy kisses in bed. No matter how much he missed their playful nips at one another, a quick-witted to-and-fro. No. It didn’t matter. _It didn’t_.

Her heart was in pain and now, so was her head. What had started as a determination to win, to not apologise, had now turned to a near obsession. And it was now the _tiniest_ things. Now everything was a battle. Who would break down first, her or him? She didn’t offer to help with anything and neither did he. She didn’t ask for help with anything and neither did he. She’d come _so damn close_ when she’d found a spider in the bathtub – she’d screamed and heard him get to his feet and run to the bathroom door (which she’d locked). But her swearing at the spider and shouting at it to _die_ had clued him in to what was going on, and neither of them had said a word to one another.

And god, he’d never really known how much a heart could _hurt_ , but it did. _It did_. He was so deep into this fight, this persistence to win, that he half couldn’t remember _why_ or _how_ they were fighting – but sooner or later he _did_ remember and his anger flared up again. But never enough to dull the ache in his chest. Everything was a competition between the two of them; little spats over the tiniest things, little pieces of smugness and worthless triumph. And who would break down first? Would he come on his knees, begging for an apology, or would she? He couldn’t imagine either scenario. He’d come close to admitting defeat – though in not quite as pathetic a fashion – when she’d screamed blue murder a few days ago. He’d leapt to his feet, suddenly all his thoughts filled with protecting her, thinking a burglar had come in – some irrational part of his mind flitted to Petrovich, implausible as it was. But as soon as he’d realised that she was in no real danger, that had all subsided. The anger, however, had no immediately flowed to take its place. For a moment, he had been hollow and empty and alone and _hurting so badly._ His mother had been right. _It’s the people you love the most, who can hurt you the most_ , she’d said. She’d been so goddamn right.

* * *

In Natasha’s opinion, Saturdays were the worst.

Saturday used to be _date night_. They’d watch a movie, or go out to dinner. They’d try new and bizarre forms of cuisine, or bonkers activities, like paintballing. Then they’d just lie in bed with one another until noon on Sunday, when they’d _finally_ drag themselves out of the warm cocoon on their bed, but only so far as the shower. She’d be sore in all the right places and he would kiss her everywhere. He’d be gorgeous all over and she would kiss him everywhere. That _used_ to be their Saturdays. The last two, James had spent round Steve’s place, and not come back until the next morning, hungover as hell. She remembered smirking to herself and thinking _weak_. Making as much of a noise as possible in the kitchen as she made breakfast for _one_. She, meanwhile, would have hung out with Clint; had him come round and they’d watch a movie together, but he had to go home at eleven because of Laura and the kids. And she’d spend hours lying alone in her bed; too big and too empty without James beside her.

But she wasn’t going to give in. No matter how much her heart ached. He couldn’t win, he just _couldn’t._ She didn’t remember why but she knew it would be the worst thing; surely the world would fall apart if she let him win. And part of her knew how to make him concede, to finally apologise. After more than six months together she knew how to play him like a violin; where to insist and where to back off, how to make him beg and plead and cry her name. She wanted that power, she wanted to hear him beg for release, for _her_. And she’d only give it if he admitted he was wrong. Then he would finally apologise, and she would win…

And somehow, she couldn’t. It was like she wasn’t _that angry_. Like it was too much and she wasn’t angry enough to want that. But no, that was impossible; she was _furious_. She wouldn’t get this worked up. Yet something was holding her back. Maybe it was the idea of using sex as a weapon to get what she wanted. Strictly speaking, she’d done a lot of that, but she’d never done it with James. It felt like cheating.

Then again, a lot of things had felt like cheating over the past fortnight, and they were still torturing one another.

* * *

“Cut!” Natasha called across the studio, and Bucky could have screamed in frustration then and there. Frankly he _would_ have if not for the fact that he was not alone – more to the point, there could be paparazzi cameras anywhere. As Natasha gave directions in a clipped voice, he could feel half the eyes in the room on him – the other half on her. This was _so typical_ of her, he seethed, as, for the hundredth time that morning, she called him out on his acting.

To be perfectly honest, his acting probably _was_ a bit off, but only because she was putting him on edge – that said, right now he would rather die than admit it to her. Of course the whole cast knew what was going on and it was a source of some of the juiciest gossip on set; how the director and the main actor – a pair whom the general Hollywood populous had yet to realise were dating – were in the middle of the biggest fight of their relationship, and they all now had front row seats to _all_ the fireworks. Anthony Stark, the little shit, had started bringing large bags of popcorn for everyone. What made things even worse was that some of the cast were eating it. He could hear crunching from the direction where Anthony, Clint and Steve (as well as some of the crew), all currently not-needed on the set, stood, smirking as though they were watching their favourite daytime drama.

“Yes, Ms Romanoff?” Bucky asked through gritted teeth when Natasha came to him. _Every single time_ she called out _anything_ on the movie, _he_ was always the last thing she dealt with, _always_. So he was standing there and forced to wait like a schmuck or a schoolchild whilst she commented on other things first. She _knew_ it pissed him off and that was _exactly_ why she did it, because most of the time everything else was fine; she was just enjoying making him wait. Which provided some clue into just how mad she was. That she, in some small way, was almost _sacrificing_ her movie in pretence of annoying Bucky. Never enough to endanger the film, no – _god_ no. She’d never do that. But she was still messing with it in tiny, tiny ways, simply to piss him off.

“You’re too tense, Barnes.” She told him. Whenever they talked now, they only referred to one another by their surnames. It killed him, really. He wanted to call her _Natalia_ and feel the name fall off his tongue like nectar. But he didn't, because if he did then she would win. And that could not happen.

So he replied instead, “That’s funny, I slept great.” and he relished in the glare she shot him. He half wanted her to flip out, here and now, disgrace herself and put an end to this awful tension that followed him whenever he was in her presence. But he knew she wouldn’t. And half of him was glad for that; because he knew _he_ would flip out, too, and he didn’t want to give her that satisfaction.

* * *

She'd been wrong. Saturdays weren't t worst. Mornings were.

Before their fight, mornings would have gone like this: she would wake up, feeling a warm, solid body behind her, and she would smile, reminded of her and him and _them_. The reason for her waking was usually the same; a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, one draped over her hip, hugging her close to him, wrapped low around her abdomen. The other would be pressing lightly into the line of her jaw, tilting her head up, and he would be trailing a line of kisses down the side of her throat. She would reach back behind herself and tangle her hand in his brown curls, pulling his head up so she could kiss him slowly, and murmur _good morning, love_ in Russian, because the sound of another language from her lips made him weak at the knees. He would return that favour, the cheeky git, with considerably less _finesse_.

Typically, the hand tilting her head up would move down, under whatever tank top or t-shirt she'd decided to wear to bed, and he would make her whine into his mouth with light touches and teases. Then, as if that wasn't enough (and maybe it wasn't; they were addicted to the sounds they made, the whines and curses they had learned to draw from one another. She could play him like a violin, but he could play her just as easily) his other hand, before wrapped chastely around her abdomen, would find its way to the apex of her legs, and he would make her whine his name as the world exploded into white stars, before she'd even had coffee. She’d hear him groan low into her mouth at the sounds she made, feel him kiss her as the stars faded and the world returned.

And she would immediately want her revenge. Coming down from the high, she would turn around in his arms, kiss him deeply, slowly but firmly pushing him to lie on his back. She would straddle him, holding his arms above his head, her prisoner, and he would grin lazily up at her. She would kiss him, hungrily, like she could never get enough of him, like she was trapped in the desert and he was water. This was also the way she would try to get rid of his grin. It rarely worked, but when it did, it was electrifying; he would gaze up at her, pupils blown wide, looking at her almost dumbly. She would then let go of his wrists in favour of pulling his shirt off and throwing it aside. If she was feeling generous, she would allow him to do the same to her. After that it was a simple matter of ridding themselves of stupid trivialities like boxers and panties. Sometimes he would sit up and wrap his arms around her torso, and she’d feel shallow, warm, damp breaths on her décolletage as she moved, and she would know he was hers to control; willing putty in her hands. Then he would take that control from her, but she was more than willing. He’d duck his head and nip her, make her dig her nails into his shoulders, cry his name, cursing when he nipped, praising when he kissed. And the world would explode again, but this time it would be better, because he followed her into the abyss, and _god_ it was a wonderful way to wake up.

But that was before their fight. Now their mornings were nothing like that. On the few occasions she didn't wake to an empty bed, she was still alone. He wasn't hugging her, wasn’t kissing her. He was lying as far away as he possibly could whilst still being on the bed. This had happened accidentally on occasion in their relationship. Before, she would have rolled over, wrapped her arms around his torso, and placed light, nipping kisses to the back of his neck and his shoulders. He would roll onto his back with a grin, pull her down for a kiss, and she would loop one leg over him, returning to their ‘ _regularly scheduled morning routine_ ’.

Again, that was before. It made her heart hurt, but she was still _so angry_. She wasn't about to lose this argument because she was having trouble adjusting to a lack of sex. She'd _managed_ long before James, she could _manage_ now. She was still not so furious as to resort using sex as a weapon against him, but if he happened to hear her _managing_ , well, _all’s fair in love and war_. And honestly, she couldn't tell which of the two this was supposed to be anymore.

Bucky was also having issues on that front. A life of celibacy wasn't exactly easy, especially not when he lived with a gorgeous woman whom he was _sure_ was dressing in her sexiest clothing when they were at home, just to torture him. The same went for her _managing_. It made his mouth drier than the desert, but he knew that that was exactly what she wanted. She wasn't coming onto him directly, for whatever reason, but she was still torturing him. Whoever said _the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach_ was talking out of their ass, he decided. The quickest way to a man’s heart was through his pants. And Natasha (damn her) knew that fully.

* * *

Exactly fifteen days after their explosive argument; fifteen days into the 21st Century’s Cold War (which everyone on the set of _Rebels_ had dubbed it, much to the joy of both parties), Steve and Clint had decided that enough was enough. Both of them were tired of the vibes that Natasha and Bucky were giving, they were throwing everyone off and, whilst the pair were still able to go out separately - to have fun and, for brief moments, be happy and forget about what was going on - something needed to be done. So, at every opportunity, they tried to force the two spatting lovers together, tried to force them to just – as Clint put it – _kiss and make up before I do something we’ll all regret_.

Peggy had been conversing with Steve on a similar note, though was pleased to report that, at the very least, they were professional enough that it didn’t affect their acting in any significant way. Of course, that didn’t mean they themselves weren’t affected.

“Bucky really seems like a nice guy,” Peggy said one afternoon in a café. Two old flames, now two good friends, catching up and having a chat. Since everyone worked for _Avengers Studios_ , it wasn’t too difficult to do just that. Of course, it would have been easier about five years back when _Avengers Studios_ and _Hydra Films_ had been _SHIELD Pictures_. A difference in opinion between the two co-founders, Nick Jackson and Alex Peirce, respectively, had led to the split. However, Steve hadn’t really had any close friends on the _Hydra_ side of productions. “I hope they work things out soon.”

“Sooner or later, they’ll talk it out.” Steve shrugged, mentally replacing the word _talk_ with _shag_ , because it was the truth. “Me and Clint have been pushing at them to, anyway.”

“About time.” Peggy murmured into her latte, “Anyway, enough about them. What’s going on with you and Stark?”

Steve choked on his coffee.

“W-what?” He asked after a violent fit of coughing. He looked at her, trying for a confused expression, but it wasn’t really working when his eyes were streaming and his throat was burning. “I d—” He coughed again, “—don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peggy rolled her eyes and smirked, “Don’t lie to me, Steve. You never could.” It was true. Even back in their college days, when Steve, Peggy and Natasha had been newfound friends, Steve had never been able to pull the wool over either ones’ eyes. It had been a source of great amusement for the two girls to point this out – but only after letting him believe he succeeded for no less than three weeks. He still flushed with embarrassment whenever that was brought up. Such as now.

“It’s… I don’t know.” He admitted, chuckling sheepishly, “I just… he’s a really nice guy, y’know?”

“I wouldn’t, actually. I’ve never met him. I just hope for your sake the tabloids are wrong.”

“Aren’t they always?” Steve pointed out, and Peggy chuckled, nodding,

“Fair point.” She admitted, “Either way, as long as you’re happy.” And she meant it. Just because they weren’t meant _to be_ didn’t mean they didn’t care for one another deeply. Steve had been the one to give Peggy away at her own wedding. Maybe, she thought, she’d have the pleasure of doing the same to him. She honestly didn’t care if he married a man or a woman. So long as he was happy.

Steve nodded again, blushing furiously, “I… I think I am.” He said, and Peggy grinned at him as she made a mental note to threaten Anthony Stark and remind him that, if he hurt Steve, he would be met with 130 pounds of _very_ pissed off Englishwoman. Between Bucky, Natasha, Peggy and a few others, Anthony was starting to find himself very tired-out by all these death threats.

* * *

That evening, after _another_ day of Clint saying, “Why don’t you go talk to him?” or “he’s looking pretty cute today, right?” or “Just go up and say something, _anything_ ” Natasha was very much looking forward to a long, warm shower, her comfiest PJs and… another evening curled up alone in her bed. Okay, so not so much. Nonetheless, when she arrived home, she was alone, James having gone to see Steve (which was _perfectly fine_ with her; she was tired of feeling tense and on edge in her own home). But even in such turbulent times, a warm shower did wonders for her mind and her body – she could relax on her own in the shower – not as much as she could when James was in there _with_ her, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen.

But that was fine. If it meant she would win, she could deal with another week or so of solitude.

Right?


	17. Cramoisi Confrontation (What’re You Gonna Do?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: The wait for _The Pits: Revoloution_ is coming to an end as filming wraps up and the scenes are sent in for editing. We can't wait! Along with Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers and Yelena Belova in the credits, we say goodbye to Anthony Stark and Bobbi Morse, but _he-llo_ to Sam Wilson, Scott Lang and T'Challa, who are bringing to life three new and very mysterious characters -- characters who, according to the recently released trailers, are part of an underground rebel group that Caden and co. find themselves in the middle of. Can you wait? We know we can't!

As per usual, Jaime was standing outside on her cigarette break when Bucky returned from Steve’s that evening. She was just starting it, actually, the thin cylinder was between her lips, but it was unlit. She paused, the lighter in her hand, when she saw Bucky coming up the steps, and gave him a wave.

“Evening.” She smiled. Despite the tenseness that surrounded him whenever he saw the building that was now his home looming above him, he smiled back. Jaime was a good kid.

“Hey.” He replied. His eyes darted to the cigarette in her mouth, and he frowned slightly, “I thought you quit.” He said blankly. In his mind, that was the truth; he hadn’t seen her smoking for almost two months, though she still came out for her break every night for some fresh air and a moment to herself. Jaime shrugged evasively,

“Shit happens,” She said, “And I’m a coward. I fall back into bad habits.” She waved the lighter humourlessly. In a moment of brotherly affection, Bucky reached out and plucked the cigarette from her mouth. She frowned.

“You’re not a coward.” He said, “But c’mon, you told me when you quit how much you wanted to.” Jaime scowled at him, but when she snatched the cigarette back, she tucked it back in the packet. Bucky smiled smugly, and she scowled again.

“I bet your little sister hates you.” She said bluntly, and he chuckled, shrugging.

“Maybe. Sometimes I hate her, too.” He replied. Jaime smiled grudgingly, and Bucky then walked into the building, his tense mood returning more and more with each step. Jaime was the gatekeeper to the ice palace, according to his over dramatic imagination; the guard who stood vigil for this unforgiving fortress of steel and stone. He wondered how long this would go on for. This argument, this… _war_. Part of him wanted to just apologise to her, just to end the hostility, because he missed her, he missed her like he was missing his left arm. Another part of him wanted to remain cold and unaffected until _she_ apologised. Mostly, it was just a lot of hurt and confusion. And silence. There was a lot of silence.

He was tired after the long day, and for that reason he didn’t fully realise that Natasha must be in the shower when he walked in the door, because he couldn’t see her in the living room, kitchenette, nor their bedroom. He pushed open the door and flopped onto the bed with a large sigh, arms splayed as though he were being crucified. It had been a long, tiring day, and it didn't help that Steve kept nudging him towards Natasha, saying things like "she looks pretty yoday" or "just go and apologise, you'll be better for it". He would be content to just fall asleep right now and be done with it for another day.

 _Jeez_ , he then thought, _it’s only seven. When did I become **that** guy?_ He might have stayed around Steve’s a little longer, but Anthony was coming round later on and he really didn’t want to intrude on Steve’s date (however much he might protest it _wasn’t_ a date and Anthony _wasn’t_ his boyfriend ect, ect), even if that meant returning to the Ice Palace.

He didn’t realise Natasha was in the bathroom – hell, he didn’t even realise she was in the _apartment –_ vaguely thinking she was out with Peggy or Maria or round Clint’s. He’d met Laura a few months ago. She seemed nice, and their newborn son _Nathaniel_ (whom Natasha only referred to as _the traitor_ ) was cute, he supposed. He had yet to get to the point where all babies were automatically cute. He was somewhat relieved that Natasha had yet to get to that point, either, but he had a sneaking suspicion there was something she wasn't telling him about that – that said, from what he knew of her past already, he wasn't so angry and so cruel as to force her to reveal more than she was comfortable with. He wasn't _that_ angry.

Digressing, he only realised Natasha was in the apartment when she came out of the bathroom, dressed in nothing but a towel.

Understandably, having been caught off guard, the pair both tensed up. Natasha’s eyes widened fractionally, having not heard him come in. She cursed herself internally; usually she was more attentive to detail, and usually more adept at hearing people come in, but it was too late to complain now. Still, she regretted her habit of blow-drying her hair before getting dressed  (though in her own defence, she didn’t like pulling on a clean shirt when she had wet hair).

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to let his presence put her off in her own home. He was not going to embarrass her out of the room. Bucky had turned to look at her, simply out of reflex, when she’d opened the door, the same way anyone turned sharply when they heard an unexpected sound. But they’d locked eyes, and silently they found themselves in the staring contest. Just like everything else, this was a battle. One they both intended to win.

One Natasha won when, completely straight faced, she let go of her towel, and it dropped to the floor.

Bucky cursed Natasha and himself internally as his body worked against him, his eyes widened and dropped her gaze to glance at the rest of her for the tiniest mentom. After the long weeks of seperation, he'd forgotten how beautiful she was; a renaissance statue come to life especially for him. Still, he ripped his gaze from her almost instantaneously. But by the time he was looking her in the eye again, he saw the glint of smugness in her expression, and scowled.

“That’s cheating.” He snapped,  glaring at her. Unperturbed, Natasha raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. Before, he might have been impressed at how she could look and _be_ proud and collected and in control whilst wearing nothing. Now it was just irritating.

“Lo and behind, he can speak.” She said in a cool voice. His scowl deepened,

“Coming from you.” He retorted, and cringed inwardly, _real clever, Buck_. He scolded himself, _really_ _witty._

Natasha evidently thought the same, judging from her smirk. “Inspiring, is that Shakespeare?” She asked, turning her head to half look at him; she was facing away from him now, pulling on a pair of shorts and a tank top. She had originally intended to dress in yoga pants and a t-shirt, but she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to mess with him a little more. She got a terrible, awful thrill from throwing him off his game. It was shameful, but she’d stopped caring by this point. When he didn’t answer, she rolled her eyes and headed for the door, deciding she would watch some TV. She’d rather that than the uncomfortable feeling in the bedroom – all thanks to _him_. But she stopped at the sound of his voice. 

“Did you want to sleep with him?” James asked, and his voice was a small, almost pitiful sound. More unsure and curious than cruel and venomous. Like he was worried, or sad. It was the first non-hostile thing he'd said to her in days.

And it was likely for that reason that Natasha stopped at the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. She turned to look at him slowly, her face unreadable. He didn’t look at her, though; not avoiding her gaze, simply not wanting to look at her anymore. It hurt too much. But the stunned silence after his words forced him to look up, where she was staring at him with something akin to anger. Suspicion.

“ _Excuse_ me?” She asked, her voice trembling with the effort to control herself.

“You heard me.” He told her, “Did you?”

Her expression turned to something more like curiosity and confusion. “It’s been two weeks.” She said, her voice less venomous than before, “Filming wrapped up a week ago. Why are you asking me now?”

He shrugged, surprising himself with how little he could bring himself to _feel_. Like he was shutting down. “You kissed me on the last day. You slept with me a month after the premiere. Me, Banner. We’re just your co-stars. I bet you don’t even see a difference. Don’t even care.”

That, as low blows went, was especially cruel, and they both knew it. Crude, pathetic, and utterly disgusting, but he _just didn’t care_. It had been two weeks and he just couldn’t find the energy to care anymore. He was tired, and angry, and in pain. He just wanted her to hurt like he was hurting. And Natasha, well, she was shocked and appalled. She was furious and exhausted and half of her wanted to go and ignore him, the other half wanted to slap him again. A small part of her wanted to pounce on him because, all words aside, there were few occasions where he looked better than he did now; angry and powerful and _wonderful_. But she pushed that aside with ease, all she had to do was hear those words in her head. _I bet you don’t even see a difference. Don’t even care._ But she did. She cared too much and so did he and that was why they were still fighting after two weeks. But she wasn’t going to let him know that. She’d put two weeks of apathy and dedication into not backing down, she wasn’t going to throw that all away. Not now.

“Fuck you.” She said bluntly.

“Yeah, well, wouldn’t be the first time.” He retorted, his voice rough and moody. His jaw was set and he was glaring at her. She glared right back. "Seems like it's all you want me for, anyway."

Her eyes were slits. “And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Her voice was colder than any ice and sharper than any knife.

“What, I didn’t make my point clear enough?” He asked, and the condescending tone of his voice was enough to make her want to scream, because she _hated_ being talked down to. And he knew it. And that was exactly _why_ he was doing it, “You don’t care about me. I’m just something to entertain you in bed. I bet you never even loved me.”

Ouch.

She was surprised by how much that hurt. Like getting punched in the gut, she almost doubled over with the sick feeling in her stomach, because she hadn’t realised how much that could hurt. The words were one thing; they stubg. But his tone was another matter entirely. The emptiness of his voice; dull and numb and hollow. Like he’d stopped caring entirely, he was just asking about facts; cold and calculating and black and white and grey. No colour, no passion. Just… empty.

“Well?” He asked, and suddenly he looked desperate – to be proved wrong or right, she couldn’t say, _he_ couldn’t say. “ _Well?_ ” He asked again, “Say it! Say you never loved me.”

She was an internal war now, half crying _I did love you, I **do** love you_ and the other half, still winning fractionally, “Say you’re _sorry_.”

He glared at her, and she was surprised when he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back into the wall – _oh god, he wasn’t going to hit her, was he?_ A spike of fear shot through her but, no. _No_. He wouldn’t do that, he _wouldn’t_. And he didn't. He only glared at her, but his eyes were as full of pain as of anger. Just like her own.

“ _Say it._ You never loved me. I was just a toy.”

“ _Say. You’re. Sorry_.” She snarled back at him,

“I have _nothing_ to apologise for.” He growled, and she refused to let herself admit that a little spike of something other than anger shot through her at the tone of his voice. “ _You_ say it.”

“No.” She said flatly, glaring back at him, measure for measure. That was as much an order to him as it was for herself. _No_ , because she was _not_ noticing the glitter of his eyes, the strength of his hands around her arms, the heave of his chest as he breathed, shallow and frantic with anger. Anger. All that anger… and strength, and power. _No_.

“ _Say it_.” He demanded roughly, his voice guttural with fury and pain and longing.

“No.”

“Say it! _Say you’re sorry!_ ”

She glared up at him, putting all of her pain, all of her rage, and yes, though she’d never admit it, all of her _desire_ into her words. She wanted him to feel them, feel them like she had been feeling these past two weeks. She wanted him to feel all her pain, all her sorrow, her loneliness and her fear, her fury and her irritation, her desperation and her desire. Her love. Because only someone she loved could hurt her this much. And only someone she loved would be worth so much of her time, even when she was hating them. She wanted him to feel all of that.

“ _Fuck you._ ”

She could see it; all that rage in his brown eyes, all that pain and hurt and want. She could see it. He felt the same way. And that was the problem. His eyes were alive with energy; with the anger. Before he’d been all but ready to call it a day, just resign himself to another lonely night on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the desire to curl his arms around her. Now he was buzzing with furious energy, and she could feel it. It was like they were filling one another with energy and they were just going to explode if they didn’t vent it.

“Say that again.” He dared her, his voice a low growl; something more befitting of an animal than a man. When she didn’t answer immediately, his grip on her shoulders tightened fractionally. “ _Say that again_.” There was another moment’s pause. Then, Natasha leant up close to him, their faces barely an inch apart, and her eyes were almost sparking with electricity. A bomb. About to go off, just a word from detonation and neither of them knew what would happen if it did.

“ ** _Fuck. You._** ”

And then they exploded. Like a bomb detonating, he crushed his lips against hers, so hard her head collided with the wall - enough to jolt but not to hurt. He moved his hands from her arms to her jawline, tilting up her head and holding her against him, pinning her between himself and the wall. It was hot and raging; there was no tenderness, no gentleness, only anger and fury and a raw desire. It was _want_ in its most unadulterated form. She tasted like cranberries again, but like fire, too. He was not careful when he kissued her – no, _claimed_ her – it was like he was trying to devour her. She tried to raise her arms – to push him away and shout at him, or maybe to fist her hands in his hair and pull him closer, he didn't know, and honestly neither did she, but if the fact she was kissing him back just as furiously was any inducatuon, it was likely the latter. Either way, he never found out. He caught her wrists in his hands and pinned them above her head, holding them there, easily, with one hand. She struggled – uselessly – against the grip, equally uselessly attempting to bite down on the small moan that escaped her lips when he did this, a tiny sound in the back of her throat, but nonetheless one he heard, and she felt his lips curl smugly. She couldn’t help it. He was always so careful, so tender, even when things were rougher, he was careful, like he was afraid he might hurt her. But there was none of that now. He was unrestrained in all of his (actually rather considerable) strength, one hand holding hers in place above her head, one knee wedge between her legs so that she couldn’t even move in that respect. She wriggled but to no avail, and it wasn’t fair that he could hold her like this (she wouldn’t change it for the world) and she was _furious_ with him (she had never been so turned on in her life) and she just wanted him to let her _think_ (she just wanted _him_ ).

And then his mouth was gone; the pressure of his lips on hers, a scorching memory, and she opened her eyes to see him looking down at her, and his pupils were blown so wide she could barely see the brown, his lips were swollen with kisses and there was a flush to his face and neck and he was breathing heavily and _god_ he looked _gorgeous_ but she was still so _mad at him_ —

“Say you’re sorry.” He hissed, his voice low and possessive and burning with – with what? Rage? Passion? It didn't matter, she loved it. It was addicting; a sound that went straight to her abdomen, and he was still so close that she could feel his breath on her lips, smell _him_ and nothing else. He smelled like want and desire and rage and _she was still so angry with him_ it almost didn’t matter. Almost.

“ _No._ ” She growled back, and before he could order her again she leant forwards and kissed him. This time _she_ claimed _him_. She _devoured_ him, twisting her wrists in such a way that he was forced to let them go. With the element of surprise on her side she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and turned, shoving him back into the wall, “ _You say it_.” She knew by the set of his jaw and the fury glittering in his eyes that it was about as likely to happen as an evil robot destroying the world, but she didn’t care. She had him pinned against the wall now, in almost an echo of their earlier switched roles. Her leg was looped around one of his, effectively immobilising him, and she kept her hands fisted in the lapels of his button-down. Before he could raise his arms to do something, anything, she ripped the rest of the shirt open, hearing buttons clatter to the floor, forcing the shirt off of his shoulders and catching his arms in the sleeves. She shoved him again, harder, right up against the wall, so he couldn’t attempt to disentangle himself. Cotton handcuffs. She planted one hand firmly on the wall and fisted the other in the collar of his t-shirt, pulling him down slightly, to her eye level. “Say you’re sorry.” She ordered him.

“ _Make me_.” He snarled back, and for a moment, her conviction wavered. Just at the sound of his voice. The raw anger of it, the rough desire, the dangerous power, all of the things she was addicted to, had only seen slight glimpses of; his full potential of strength and possession. The animal that lay inside every human being, coming to the surface. Usually she despised such things; clumsy and crude and, in some cases, cruel. But loathe as she was to admit it, here and now and even if only to herself, she loved it when it came from James. And for a moment she was lost in that surprise, at the sound of his voice; for a moment her anger receded and she only felt desire.

That moment was all he needed. He pushed himself forwards, catching her off-guard – and thus making her anger return whole-heartedly – he pushed her, and with one of her legs around his calf she had no time to steady herself, and she stumbled backwards. She would have fallen to the floor if James hadn’t caught her, if he hadn’t pulled his arms out of his shirt, tossed it aside and caught her all in an instant. One moment she was in control, the next he had his hands tight around her arms, was walking her back into the wall by the bedroom window.

“That was you making me?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous; a panther stalking it's prey. She glared at him furiously as she felt the wall press into her back. To her right she could see the window; the twilight, hear the buzz of people in the streets below.

“No,” She admitted, her gaze staying fiery as, in a moment of daring, she reached down under his jeans and gripped him. He choked a gasp – half in complete surprise, half in pleasure – and swore as she smirked at him. “ _This is_.”

He cursed her under his breath; muttering as his hands gripped her upper arms almost painfully tight, his face buried into her shoulder. He was shaking, with fury and want and anticipation. Trembling and utterly hers to control. This was what she loved; this strong and powerful man at her mercy, whining her name like a prayer and a curse. He was hers to do with as she pleased, and right now there was only one thing she wanted from him.

“Say you’re sorry.” She hissed in his ear, less aggressive and more sultry, but no less demanding. He shook his head, the thoughts in his head too confused, to mess up, for him for formulate a single word. He moaned against her skin when she swiped her hand up sharply; a pathetic, pleading whine. “ _Say it_. Say you were wrong. Say you’re sorry.”

“N-no.” He muttered, his Brooklyn accent suddenly thick. It was entirely coincidental; a sign of his lack of control, like his shaking. But it worked to his advantage because the word made her knees feel weak. “L-leggo.” His voice was slurring with the onslaught of confusion and conflicting emotions running through his head, he could hardly think straight, frustrated in every sense of the word. And he was unconvincing in his demand; leaning closer to her, into her touch, and his voice was half pleading with want as it was burning with dying anger.

She laughed humourlessly, a breathy chuckle in his ear, and turned her head. His face was still buried in her shoulder and her lips were right next to his ear when she replied in a sultry hiss, “ _Make me_.”

He made her. He managed to gather his thoughts enough to grab her wrist and pull her hand from his pants. He twisted her arm up behind her back – not violently, but enough that she winced slightly. This gave him enough time to clear his head slightly, the absence of her hand alluding to this greatly. He turned them again so she was pressed against the wall, one arm pinned behind her back and preventing her from any substantial movement, leaving her entirely at his mercy. They were both at one another’s mercy, both equally in the palm of one another’s hands. To think anything else was a delusion, but they were both so loathe to admit it, even to themselves, that their normally careful, tantalising battles – the slow to-and-fro, give-and-take – were now reduced to a furious clash for power, dominance, and release. Holding her arm behind her back, her other all but useless, and so simply fisted in his hair, pulling him down for angry kisses, he pressed himself against her, as though he intended to crush her between himself and the wall. She just might have let him.

Before she could, he was pulling away from her, ducking his head, and kissing his way down her collar. Half of her wanted to let him continue, the other half wanted to hear him apologise, wanted to hear him _beg_. She managed to pull her arm free from behind herself and grab the hem of his shirt. She bit down on a pitiful, pleading whine when she pulled his shirt up roughly and his lips left her skin. Surprised by his shirt’s sudden and apparent decision to remove itself, Bucky actually bit his lower lip by accident, hard enough to split the skin a little. Before he could groan from the pain, the world went dark as the fabric of his shirt covered his face. Of course, it couldn’t be removed without his raising his arms, so for purely practical purposes (okay, and maybe he wanted to get back and Natasha for the towel stunt) he reached behind himself for the collar of his shirt and pulled it off properly in one fluid movement. Natasha, almost as furious at her own body for betraying her as she was at James, blushed. Two weeks seemed like an awfully long time when considering James. She wanted to bite his collarbone hard enough to bruise, one that would never go away, that would mark him as _hers_ for all eternity. Taking advantage of the moment he took to stand and smirk at her smugly, she attempted just that, leaning in and pressing her lips to his collar, right on his pulse point.

Against his will, he groaned. But his arms were free and he was able to torture her twice as badly as she was him. She was still against the wall, and his hands went to her thighs, lifting her up, and, surprisingly obediently, she looped her legs around his waist. If they were trying to win this bizarre battle, it was at a disadvantage for them both (and thus, at the same time, an advantage), because this new angle, the friction of them against one another, with only a few meagre layers of clothing separating them, it was enough to madden them both even further. Natasha knew that, and when she moved her hips, he groaned again and buried his face into her shoulder, telling her over and over _I hate you I hate you I hate you_. She only smiled, half from pleasure and half from triumph, both so great that she didn't even care that she was risking her own victory by moving, because she loved that he hated her and she hated him back – except she didn’t, and he didn’t, either. Her anger was almost receding now; it wasn’t rage and fury so much as a yearn for triumph, a battle for being right.

She could hardly remember what they’d been fighting about, but that was more likely because she could barely think straight with James in front of her like this. It was addicting, having him shuddering and shaking, his hands pressed so hard against the wall he might crack it, all because of her. When he began to gain some control back, moved so that _she_ was the one crying out, muttering she hated him, she wasn’t sure whether to enjoy it or to be irritated that he was winning. He couldn’t win, she wouldn’t let him. And James was thinking the same in respect to her. He was losing, and he couldn’t lose. He couldn’t even remember _why_ winning was so important – neither of them could – but he knew he just _had_ to win. He summoned what little remained of his self-control and pried one of his hands from the wall – they were pressed so firmly against it he was surprised the plaster hadn’t cracked – and took some small revenge of his own. Her pyjama shorts were thin and cotton and easy to slip his fingers under, and the sound she made when he did, the way her hands tightened around his neck and shoulders, was more than worth it. She whined and tried to reprimand him, but she could find the thoughts to form words, and was, like he had been earlier, reduced to whimpering into his shoulder and shaking her head crossly.

“I hate you.” She growled in his ear,

“I know.” He muttered back, his voice rough and low and savage as he moved his hand again and made her hips buck against her will, coaxed a whine from the back of her throat. He sounded pleased by her words; of course they both knew they were a lie. But he was still pleased. He was building her up, she could feel it. He knew how to play her like a harp, exactly how much pressure to apply and for exactly how long. Almost there, so close, so close... She was almost willing to let go, because it had been so long and she could hardly remember why they were fighting and it seemed so petty and insignificant when she was here and now— But no such relief came. He didn’t push her over the edge, no, he dangled her over the edge but held on, _held her there_. She would have cursed him to high heaven if she'd had the breath. Idiot idiot _idiot_. He knew he was torturing her. She moaned in frustration, and would have cursed at him if she could find the words.

“James, _pozhaluysta_...” She whined, in her frustration forgetting English entirely, begging to him in Russian. He almost obeyed her, then. Almost let her go, because the sound of her in Russian was like nothing he’d ever heard, and if he’d thought she’d sounded like sex when first meeting her, it was _nothing_ compared to this. She was some sort of vengeful goddess, beautiful and awing.

But he was still furious. He was still mad. He was not going to let her off so easily. He ducked his head and hissed in her ear, “ _Say you’re sorry_.” And she almost fell over the edge with just the tone of his voice. He’d spoken in a low voice before, rough and growling – he’d basically been doing that this whole time. But there was something... _raw_ to it now. Animalistic and possessive and addictive; the power of him, the strength and rage and potential to be something wild and untameable, all there for her and her alone to see. She loved it.

Not, however, enough to make her surrender.

“ ** _Nikogda_.** ” She snarled at him. _Never._ Then, without warning, she unwrapped her legs from around his waist and shoved him backwards, and in his surprise he stumbled back enough for the backs of his knees to collide with the edge of the bed; to send him sprawling, his head colliding with the pillows and half-winding him. He might have recovered and stood up if she hadn’t followed his stumbling (with considerably more grace) and pinned him down by placing her hands squarely on his chest and straddling him. He probably would have been able to break her hold, but not without pushing her away, and loathe as he was to admit it, he didn’t want to push her away. He let her crawl above him, catlike, her eyes smouldering with anger and want.

He found it considerably less enticing – or perhaps several times more – when she unbuckled his belt and shuffled his jeans and underpants down. His eyes widened when he saw her expression; predatory, powerful, dark and dangerous. He wasn’t sure whether to protest or not, but before he could make up his mind, she was on him, and whatever words he had been meaning to say were caught up in the groan that came out instead. She glared down at him, but it was clear to see she was having trouble keeping her cool atop him; so close but she _couldn’t_ let go, not now. She _would not lose_. He arched his back, his hands firm on her hips, determined to make her go first, but he could feel his resolve slipping. He wasn’t proud of what he did next.

“Natalia, _please_ —” He started to beg, but she leant down and swallowed his words in a furious kiss. When she pulled away sharply, he saw her eyes were sparking with furious tears, her anger returning anew, and her hands dug into his shoulders, half from pain, half from pleasure. She shook her head at him like she was appalled.

“You don’t get to beg.” She told him sharply, “Say you’re sorry. _Say it_.” She needed to hear him say it, she was so _mad_. How could he have done this to her? “You hurt me.” Her voice was bitter and shaking with anger, “ _You_ _hurt me, James_.” The furious tears stung in her eyes, hot and angry and unbidden. She was begging him now. Begging him to apologise, because he’d hurt her that bad. It was a wound in her heart; raw and fresh and stinging. _Did you ever love me?_ Of course she had, _of course_. With almost everything of her being. And he had doubted that? It was worse than dying, she was sure of it. Her heart ached like she’d been stabbed and every time she replayed that moment in her mind, it was like twisting the knife again.

She’d stopped.

She hadn’t even noticed that she’d stopped, but she had. The furious, desperate movements atop him, all ceased. She was glaring at him with tears in her eyes, _needing_ to hear the words, even more than she needed him right now. Because if he didn’t say he was sorry then he was admitting that he thought she’d never really loved him. And that was too painful to even contemplate. When he didn’t speak, stunned and confused into silence, she shoved at him – which was ultimately useless, given he was laid down on a bed – pushed against his shoulders and shouted at him,

“ _Say it, James!_ ” She cried, “Just _say it_ , for god sakes! Say you’re sorry! Take it back!”

Bucky looked up at her. His anger, his pain, even his desire, to an extent, had all receded background characters in the play of his head, all stepping back as confusion stepped up for his big solo. His brow furrowed slightly, and his brown eyes foc using as though he were trying to decipher her. His lips parted slightly as though he intended to say something. They were swollen from her kisses, and his soft eyes were glittering bright, but they were no longer blown so black; pupils contracting when he realised the full extent of her distress. But still he was confused. His throat was dry and rasping from his kisses and furious growls. He only barely managed to scratch out, “Take _what_ back, Natalia?”

She looked at him like she was in pain. And she was, _god_ she was. “You asked me if I ever really loved you.” She said in a small voice, “You... you think I never did. But I do, okay? _I do. **I do**_ **.** ” She shoved him again, “Say you’re sorry!” She was half crying now, sat beside him, no longer atop him, curled forwards and shaking with half-stifled sobs. He sat up and pulled his boxers back up for a modicum of decency. His jeans, he kicked off, and his hands he used to cup her face, tilting her head up to look at him, brushing away her tears with his thumb.

“Natalia,” He said in a hushed voice, “I _know_ you love me. I... I was mad. I wasn’t thinking straight, I’d _never_ believe something like that. I _love_ you. And... I-I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.”

And just like that, they let go.

All the anger and heartbreak and pain and sorrow from the past two weeks just... melted away. With those two little words. _I’m sorry_. It was like an invisible weight had been lifted from their shoulders; they both sat up straighter, less burdened, less tired, more free and like themselves than they had been for two whole weeks. Natasha looked up at him, and gave him a watery smile. “I’m sorry, too.” She said, and the words came so easily. Was that _really_ what they’d been fighting over? It was so petty, so insignificant. She sniffed the, and wiped at her eyes irritably, grimacing. “Oh, god, I’m a mess.”

Bucky chuckled, “You’re gorgeous.” He promised her, and he leant in for another kiss. This time it was sweet, gentle, kind and loving. It was slow and sated and only now did they realise how _wrong_ it had all been earlier. This was right; the give and take, the harmless teasing, the begging that was heard, not sneered at. She kissed him back, fully and deeply and with such a sense of _relief_. He leant forwards, gently coaxing her onto her back, hesitating for a moment as though asking her permission, and she pulled him down, promising him _yes_. Yes; this was how it should be, this was them. Not the fighting and the bitter remarks. _This_. With two little words now the apologies flowed easily, offered and not demanded, seemingly without end.

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

“No, no, I was being a dick. It’s not like you make a habit of it.”

“But it was wrong, _I_ was wrong. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, I overreacted.”

“You were jealous, I should have been more respectful.”

“I’m sorry.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I'm sorry. I was so cruel, you didn't even think you loved me. But I _do_. _I love you._ ”

"How could I forget? I was angry. I know you love me. And _I love you, too_.”


	18. Incarnat Normalité (A Return To Normality)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: OMG! Everyone's buzzing with excitement as _The Pits: Revolution_ premieres THIS EVENING in downtown Hollywood. Everyone's aching for a glimpse at the all-star cast and the fabulous director, and we're all simply _desperate_ for details; plot, characters, _anything_. Rumours are flying and they're all good, but what could we expect from this line-up of stars? It's sure to blow even Peggy Carter's _Budepest_ out of the water, but that in itself is high praise, and everyone should go see the Scarlet Starlet in action before flocking to cinemas this weekend. Also high on the list is the mystery of said Starlet's love life - one of our best reporters, Miss Foster, gives the details on page 4.

Much to the relief of everyone on the set of _The Pits: Revolution_ , Bucky and Natasha made up very effectively and quickly (several times), and things among the crew finally got less edgy – of course everyone was secretly hoping that the pair had had the decency to apologise and make up _before_ filming was almost finished, hey, you can’t have everything.

 _The Pits: Revolution_ had been sent off to editing, and trailers were periodically hitting the screens and sending the country into a spiral of anticipation during that final four-month wait for the film itself. The only downside was that, because they didn’t want to be swarmed by the press, Natasha and Bucky had to pretend they weren’t dating. Whilst it was fun at times, it was starting to prove more difficult as time went on.

 _“So, Miss Romanoff, are the rumours of this mystery man true?”_ One reporter would ask. Natasha would laugh daintily and Bucky would chuckle along good-naturedly, his arm around her shoulder as though he were merely a friend.

 _“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a mystery if I told you.”_ She would reply with a dazzling smile.

It had started off as nothing short of hilarious, but jokes got old, and this was no exception. By the time the premiere rolled around, Bucky was kind of tired of being referred to as a _mystery man_ , and whilst he knew it was a lot better than being swarmed 24/7 and watched under even _more_ of a microscope than he was already, he was kind of getting tired of Natasha being flirted with _right in front of him_ and not being able to kiss her outside of their apartment.

But they both knew that it was for the best, and there _was_ something awfully thrilling about it. Just as he got jealous when guys were drooling over her, he could see _her_ eyes darken and _her_ jealousy rise when women were doing likewise with him. They got more of a thrill out of one another’s envy than they cared to admit. And, to the credit of the cast, they _were_ keeping it under wraps (Anthony had proved a challenge, but only up to the point where Natasha had threatened to out his and Steve’s relationship if he didn’t cram a sock in it; the papers still had no idea he was even bisexual) fairly dutifully. Even the newcomers, such as Sam (a veteran-turned-actor who had since become Steve’s jogging buddy) and Scott (an ex-engineer with a Master’s from MIT and a flair for dramatics) were keeping it well on the down low.

And, as _The Pits: Revolution_ rolled in and out of the editing studio, and the premiere approached, they were finding it harder and harder to keep their cools, and their hands off of one another. They’d come _dangerously_ close to getting found out perhaps a handful of times since their relationship had begun, a little under a year ago. Nothing, however, compared to the frequency and riskiness of their post-make-up selves, wherein Natasha had had to get a lock for her office because of James’ frequent “ _lunch dates_ ” and the fact that Maria, brusque and unflappable, still refused to knock when coming in. They’d nearly been caught by an _actual reporter_ on the set of the movie during one of the last days of filming in the supply closet (what could they say; something about the prospect of getting caught was exhilarating) and several hotel rooms up and down the city had been privy to them on one night or another, during one of their more carefree and frivolous evenings.

Bucky and Steve had grown up in the poor boroughs of Brooklyn, and were still not that used to spending excessively. Natasha, having grown up in the heart of a boot-camp-type ballet school, was also used to getting by on the essentials. But, obviously, they both had more money than they knew what to do with, so every now and then they had a night out and spent like divas. The whole prospect of keeping their relationship secret had gotten lot easier ever since he’d moved in with her – roughly four months ago – but to be honest their mutual thrill for inappropriate locales meant that had had little effect on where they'd jumped each other's bones. Many – though not all (not by a long way) – of those _inappropriate_ locales had been on their "diva" evenings; and one particular instance had involved one of the linen closets in one of the hotels they’d stayed in. Another had involved a can of whipped cream, far too many bottles of wine, and a game of _Truth or Dare_ that had gotten _way_ out of hand but in a way that had had neither of them complaining.

When the premiere finally approached, however, they debated on whether or not to reveal their relationship, but eventually decided, once again, to let things wait. They both _despised_ their private lives being on show for the world to watch, and such news would only bring more reporters in; like vultures. Nonetheless, they were going together, under the guise of “star and director”. Even though Anthony and Bobbi hadn’t been in the second installment, they were still coming along (Anthony as Steve’s plus one – even though Natasha actually didn’t _give out_ plus ones) and Bobbi after much of the cast agreed they’d like to have her there. Not only was the cast like a family, but the already-confirmed third-installment of the franchise had promised a return of Bobbi and Anthony’s characters.

Yelena (whose character Shayera had still only shared a few kisses with Caden, even over the course of the film, Bucky had to wonder if that was slight jealousy on Natasha’s part or just some cinematic “build-up-the-tension” trick) was also coming along, obviously, but she and Bucky still held no real love (or even _like_ ) for one another. He still considered her empty and a little shallow, and especially since he was with Natasha (Yelena knew, and it was only because she’d agreed to keep things quiet that he held _any_ amity towards her) he felt a little unnerved by her. She still had a crush on Steve, though, and no one had yet had the heart to tell her about Anthony.

So, ten minutes before the limo was due to pick them up, Bucky was pacing the living room of Natasha’s – well, _their_ ; he still got a proud little thrill when he reminded himself that _they were living together_ (well, sort of; he spent most of his time there, but still had a load of stuff over at Steve’s. It wasn’t like he needed the room) – apartment somewhat nervously. He’d been to premieres before, but never one like this; never a sequel to a blockbuster hit, where he was the star, and his best friend was a co-star, and his idol (and girlfriend) was the director. Though, granted, he’d never been big on “girlfriends” until Natalia had come along. He was dressed a little more colourfully than usual; Natasha, Yelena and Bobbi had always found it rather amusing how the women were in dresses of the whole rainbow spectrum, and all the guys were just in _black._ In an attempt to be a little more colourful this time around, all the cast’s male members had picked colours for their suits.

That said, Bucky still reserved the right to _not at all_ believe Tony’s insistence that he was going to turn up in a hot-rod-red tux and a golden shirt. Clint, who was (obviously) coming to the premiere, with his lovely wife Laura – and they’d be enjoying their first night out since the birth of _little Natasha_ (real name  _Nathanial_ , for gender reasons, but Natasha seemed to be having a hard time coming to terms with it) the news of which had made Natasha cry with joy, and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything like it – though Nathanial, as well as Clint’s stepkids (Laura’s children by her first and apparently-thankfully-gone husband) were staying at home with a sitter. He’d promised a dark purple suit and a black shirt. Once again, Bucky reserved the right to doubt. His own suit was simple but still a little more colourful. Though the jacket and trousers were still black, he had a red bow tie, a matching cummerbund, and a silvery shirt. Inspired by Caden’s character – his metal arm had had a red star engraved upon it, the mark of that world’s Fighting Pits and an equivalency to a brand – he’d taken the liberty of having a red star embroidered on the left shoulder of his suit jacket. Steve was apparently just going in simple dark-blue. _That_ , he could believe.

“Stop pacing, James. You’ll wear a hole through the floor.” Natasha’s voice sounded amused as she emerged from their bedroom, fixing a ruby stud earring in place. It matched the pendant at her throat, and her dress was silver and glowing. She looked like a spirit and, as ever, beautiful. She’d grown her hair out since the premiere of the first film, so it fell in long, thick, sultry ringlets around her face – though right now it was piled atop her head in the picture of elegance. The colour  of her dress was a subtle and amusing inside joke on their part, since that and the addition of ruby jewellery was a nod to his own attire; they made a dazzling pair.

“I’m allowed to be worried.” He grinned back at her, crossing the living room to wrap an arm around her waist and admire her up close. Her eyeshadow was silver, but her lips were a shade of red so bright that Peggy Carter would have been proud. He’d properly met (or rather, re-met) Carter at the premiere of _Budapest_ about a month ago; he and Steve had been invited along for the film, and (sex scene aside) it was a serious masterpiece. He noted vaguely that there should be more female directors; they apparently seemed to know what they were doing a lot more than the males. “What if it sucks?”

Natasha laughed; a peal of silver bells. “I don’t know whether to be affronted or just pleased that you’re fretting – it’s adorable.” She grinned, reaching up a hand to cup his cheek fondly and give him a light, chaste kiss on the lips. They had to limit themselves to _light and chaste_ otherwise all their hard work at looking presentable would be undone (and they were remarkably efficient at tearing off clothing and smearing makeup by this point). He really _was_ adorable when he was worried; his brown eyes big and soft, his jaw set in a nervous pout. But he stopped pouting now to flash her the cocky half-grin that still never failed to make her weak at the knees.

“I dunno, Natalia. What’s to say your magic touch finally ran out? What’s to say the film is crap?” It was only teasing, of course, but for a moment she looked genuinely worried, and he had to laugh and brush her concern away by nuzzling her neck and humming. She giggled; that was one of a few sure-fire ways to get her giggling, as she was ticklish there, but soon resumed her cool and sultry demeanour. Now more than ever he was sure she _defined_ cool and sultry.

“Magic touch, huh?” She asked in a murmur, “God, if it’s run out, I don’t know what I’ll do.” Her smile was catlike; she was a predator and he was her oh-so-willing prey, “I guess I’ll have to _test it out_ —” She reached behind him and pinched him, making him jump, “—and make sure everything’s still working…” She reached up to kiss his pulse point (which had gone from relatively-calm to racing in a matter of seconds) and he gave a small groan. In part because of his stirring desire, but also because he was chastising himself for what he was going to say next.

“Nat, we _can’t_. Not now we’re about to—” She heard, but she didn’t listen, fastening her lips over his pulse point and kissing hard enough to ensure a hickey. This rather effectively cut him off with a pathetic, keening whine. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you saw it) they were then interrupted from _undoing_ all their hard work by the buzz of the apartment intercom, and Jaime’s voice, fuzzy but distinctive, over the speaker.

“Ms Romanoff, Mr Barnes? Your limo’s here.” That was enough to quash – well, pause – the desire pooling between them, and hastily he grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and wiped away the smear of lipstick on his neck, hoping the hickey wouldn’t form until after they got home.

Jaime was a smart kid, and had since sussed that Bucky had lied the first time they met, and that he was who he was. But, to her credit, she’d kept her mouth shut through all the hype and the tabloids’ never-ending speculation. After all this time, they’d still not twigged that Natasha’s “mystery man” was himself, though the mentions of his own date that had been circulating a few months ago had died out; evidently Natasha was more recognisable (which was understandable given her hair). She was standing like a proper bellhop by the lobby doors, holding them open for the couple and grinning.

“Million bucks.” She commented as he walked past, and he gave a small laugh as he and Natasha walked into the chilly air to the limo. He graciously opened the door for Natasha and slid in behind her – though not quite as smoothly as she did; it always amazed him how she had such absolute control over her body, then again, it was likely a requirement of being a dancer (and he was very proud to admit that all that honed technique and poised control went out the proverbial window when he touched her) – and pulling the door shut. Steve and Anthony were going ahead on their own (as “friends” as far as the press was concerned), as were Clint and Laura and the others.

Naturally, the carpet was alive with sparkling cameras when they emerged from the limo. Natasha looked radiant in her silver dress that reflected each flash like starlight, giving winning smiles and knowing smirks and hugging close to Bucky in a way that made it seem they were the best of friends and nothing more. She glanced at James as the cameras flashed and had to take a moment to admire how good he looked. She rather liked the red star on his shoulder, and hoped he’d keep it. If anyone had a right to take that signature, it was him.

The carpet was set out in such a way that it slalomed along the lines of crowds to culminate in a sort of “grotto” where reporters could conduct quick interviews and get group shots. Bucky had to choke back a laugh as he arrived in the grotto. Everyone, true to their word, was in a brightly coloured tux, and the crowd was _loving_ it.

Not just the crowd, either. Other cast members; men and women alike, reporters, _everyone_ was laughing and admiring. Pictures were always taken in slews at events like this, but even _those_ cameras were going double-time to catch everything. Natasha and Bucky split up then; gender-based group shots were always popular, then pair-shots (Bucky and Steve, Bucky and Yelena, Natasha and Clint, Natasha and Bucky and so on – no prizes as to guessing the favourite pair), and one large group shot with Bucky in the middle, Yelena on his right and Natasha on his left, the three of them framed by the supporting cast.

“Stevie,” Bucky grinned, “I know Tony’s a mad one, but I didn’t think he’d actually _do_ it.” Steve was grinning at Stark in his hot-rod-red-and-gold tux (who was _milking_ the extra attention).

“You underestimated his madness then.” He replied, “C’mon, Buck, I always go for the mad ones – why d’you think you’re my best friend?” Bucky had to bark a laugh at that, even if he did shove Steve lightly, because if he remembered correctly, _Steve_ had been the mad one. Himself, sure, he’d been the scrap with a language problem, but Steve had been the one crazy enough to try anything if someone dared him, the guy who’d do _anything_ as soon as someone said he couldn’t do it. No, Steve had _very much_ been the mad one.

“You’re so full of it, Stevie.” He laughed, and they paused their conversation to grin for another picture. They didn’t have any time to continue, either, as, just then, people began filing into the theatre. Bucky caught sight of Natasha, stealing one last picture with Clint and Laura, and kissing them each on the cheek before heading over to him.

“Let’s go see if I still have my _magic touch_.” She murmured, just loud enough so that he could hear, and thus could blush red. She grinned, pleased by his reaction, and laughed when he offered her his arm in a very forties-gentleman fashion, taking it gladly and allowing him to lead her into the theatre.

* * *

The movie was, just like the first, and just as they all knew it would be, incredible. Acting, directing, costumes, sounds and set, all flawless – then again, who would expect any less when it came to the Scarlet Starlet? Everyone in the theatre was grinning; thoroughly enjoying the spectacle unfolding before them on the silver screen.

“I don’t know about you, but I’d say that _magic touch_ of yours is still very much there.” Bucky murmured into her ear as they walked out of the theatre, and Natasha had to force herself not to blush as red as her hair at the tone of his voice. They’d been equally terrible at that tonight; trying to get the other hot and bothered. Both of them were succeeding very, _very_ well. It seemed that, in the aftermath of their fight, they were trying to make up for the two-week gap in their love life; two weeks of withdrawal for two people who were utterly, _hopelessly_ addicted to one another. As such, they’d been flirtier than usual; more promiscuous and more inclined to debauch one another in _highly inappropriate_ locales. In retaliation, Natasha wrapped her arm around his waist, donning a smile for the onslaught of cameras, and murmuring in a voice _just_ loud enough for Bucky – but not anyone else – to hear.

“I’ll show you just how much later tonight.” A cheap line, typically. Laughable, even. But there was no part of Bucky that was laughing when she spoke like that. She was a master of seduction; she could have been a spy like her character in _Budapest_ if she’d really wanted to. She could pour every ounce of sultry and sensuous in the world into her words; have him _very_ hot and _very_ bothered with just a few sentences. He could not _quite_ make the same claim (close, but not quite) and she knew it; playing to her strengths and eager to wrestle control from him. That was almost as fun as having him wrestle it back from her, have him make her his (incredibly willing) prisoner; helpless against his strength and power. Bucky swallowed and forced himself to remain calm as he followed Steve, Anthony and Natasha into a limo, and they were driven over to the Asgard.

Thor was there, as usual; big, blonde, loud and jovial. The only difference between this visit and the one from last year was that Natasha and Bucky were not, for once, eager to explore the lustrous architecture of the building, instead sneaking away from the group before the flock of reporters could descend upon them like so many vultures, and trying to find a room to enact their revenge and fuel their mutual addiction.

“ _This is a bad idea_ …” Natasha managed to gasp out between heavy, panting breaths. “ _This is a very, **very** bad idea…_ ” The room they’d found was a bedroom; one of many in this hotel-esque building, the sheets untouched and _begging_ to be dishevelled. Of course, they weren’t on the bed. They were so desperate for one another that Natasha had barely closed the door behind them before Bucky had been pinning her against it; crushing her between it and himself.

“Don’t care.” Bucky muttered gruffly into her neck, kissing hard on a pulse point and making her whine. His hands, one fisted tight in her mussed curls, the other possessive in the small of her back, moved to grip her thighs and lift her up. Obediently, she wrapped her legs around his hips, bare feet (her shoes were lost somewhere in the room, flung away along with Bucky’s jacket and bow-tie) digging into the tops of his thighs. He really didn’t care, and she didn’t either; her protests insincere and unmotivated. Her hands were digging into his shoulder blades – one of them, anyway, the other tangled in his hair, guiding his head as he kissed down her throat and along her collar. One of the elegant, slinky straps of her glittering dress was pushed aside in this trail, to slip off of her shoulder and rest delicately in the crook of her bent arm, revealing the top of her bra, pale grey and satin. He ducked his head lower, the satin thin and yielding, easily allowing the skin underneath to be warmed by his heavy breathing.

When his mouth sealed over her breast, she let out a keen loud enough to probably be heard downstairs, and he pressed her tighter against the door with his hips, so he could free up a hand to cover her mouth. He raised his hand and met her gaze. Their pupils were blown so wide that their eyes seemed almost black, and his voice was low and husky as he said, “Shh, Natalia. Don’t want to get caught, now, do we?”

Natasha’s response involved pushing his hand away and leaning forwards to launch her own attack on his throat. Her hands went to his shirt collar and pulled it off roughly, baring the top half of his chest and his shoulders. She immediately went for the hollow of his throat, meanwhile, she lowered herself from his embrace so her feet was on the floor. She was ideal height to maintain her assault on his collar, and walked him backward as she worked, until the backs of his knees collided with the bed and he was sent sprawling, Natasha following him with full intention, in absolute control of the situation.

They were hopeless, helpless addicts, and their drug was one another. The time for patience was over; Natasha pushed down the other strap of her dress and let the silver fabric collapse in a shimmering puddle behind her, before crawling onto the bed, bracketing herself above him, hands eagerly, almost sloppily, going for his belt. She fumbled slightly, clumsy in her desperation for a fix, but got it done, working his trousers down to his knees as he finished shrugging off of his shirt. What she _didn’t_ expect was for him to then flip them over so _he_ was on top, for him to bracket _her_ with all of his strength, for him to be so desperate and eager himself that he accidentally ripped her bra when trying to remove it (not that either of them cared at that moment in time).

She didn’t really care, though. She just needed her fix, she needed _him_. And she got him. All thoughts of maintaining decency and professionalism were gone as that small, untouched room was filled with the sounds of panting and whimpers, the smell of sweat and desire. It was just as well the party below was so loud, otherwise they most certainly would have been caught.

* * *

Roughly twenty minutes later, they deigned to re-join the party – after all, if it was anyone’s, it was theirs, as the star and director, respectively. Natasha looked almost no different to before, save the fact that her curls were now down, but she looked impeccably put together; no one would guess that she had a ripped bra wadded up in her clutch purse. Bucky was somewhat _less_ impeccably put together – his bow-tie not quite straight, his hair still a little mussed. Tiny details no one would notice if they weren’t looking for them, but that seemed obvious to Bucky and Natasha themselves.

One thing they couldn’t hope to hide, though, was the fairly obvious hickey that Natasha had marked onto the side of Bucky’s neck. Normally his collar might have hidden it, but it was a bit higher than usual, and one of his shirt buttons had popped off, meaning he couldn’t quite do his shirt up properly (and the reason why his bow-tie wouldn’t sit straight). Natasha was in an even worse position, though, because her dress was low-cut, and there was a similar, possibly _more_ obvious hickey forming on her décolletage, and she didn’t have any makeup with which to cover it.

“That was a bad idea.” She muttered to Bucky as they re-entered the party, acutely aware of the love-bites they were both sporting.

“I think you and I have different definitions of _bad_.” Bucky replied in a low voice, to which she smacked him lightly – it was that or kiss him, and they were surrounded by cameras. However, they formulated a plan. For the rest of the night, they would remain entirely separate. Natasha would chat with Bobbi and Clint and Laura and Yelena. Bucky would socialise with Steve and Anthony and Scott.

Easier said than done, though. They were, after all, addicts.

“Miss Romanoff!” Cried one nearby reporter, a young woman by the name of Jane Foster – Natasha only knew that because Thor had a thing for her, so allowed her to come to every event he hosted. Foster, followed by a bored-looking photographer whom Natasha didn’t know (what was her name? Lacy? Marcy?). “Miss Romanoff!” She said again, trying to get Natasha’s attention. Natasha turned to her, “After watching the premiere of your new film, do you believe it’s really as good as they? Do you really believe it’s better than the first?”

“Well,” Natasha replied, in a voice just to the side of cool (she couldn’t be outright rude to a reporter, lest they get cross and petty and decide to publish it) because she was missing James (god that was pathetic, but it was true) and she was starting to get tired and she _really hated_ interviews when she was closed and couldn’t turn away to talk to someone, “My opinion, as writer and director, is likely biased, but I do. However, it’s for the audience to decide, truly. They, after all, are the people it’s made for.” Jane nodded eagerly,

“And can you tell us anything about your mystery man?” She continued, and Natasha had to suppress a groan. Of course, every interview with her ended up going this way eventually, though most reporters had a little more finesse and beat around the proverbial bush a little more. She suspected this was such a popular topic because she was a woman. She almost _never_ got the interesting questions; always being quizzed on her dress or her love life. Steve and Bucky and some of the others (bless them, even if she would never say it out loud) had taken to deliberately answering those questions themselves, but when they weren’t within immediate reach, reporters pounced on her, and had no qualms about asking them anyway.

“If I did, he wouldn’t be a mystery.” Natasha replied pointedly, “And I would appreciate a little bit of privacy towards my _private_ life.” She added. Jane nodded again but didn’t really seem to hear. Her camerawoman leant in closer for another photograph. Natasha’s blood ran cold when the woman – _Darcy!_ That was her name! – paused and lowered the camera to point and mutter something to Jane. Natasha tried not to grimace as the inevitable and obvious question was asked.

“And what’s _that?_ ” Jane asked, pointing to the apparently-more-obvious-than-she’d-thought hickey on her collar. “Is the mystery man here tonight?” She continued, “Or is this a different tryst?” She was almost bouncing with excitement as the questions flew faster than Natasha could hope to answer – not that she would have. “If this is from another man, does he know? Does he _care?_ Are you in love or is this just a fling—”

“No comment.” Natasha said harshly, in a tone that said _this interview is over_ and that it was _not_ up for debate. Jane frowned in annoyance but didn’t pursue her and watched, slightly annoyed, as Natasha wove her way through the crowd and tried to go unnoticed. James, thankfully, was talking to Steve and Anthony in a very casual conversation, so she joined with a great deal of ease and no suspicion.

“Nat, you alright?” Steve asked immediately, not the first to notice she was clearly a little ruffled, but the first to voice it. She nodded once and sharply.

“I’m fine.” She replied, “But Thor’s girlfriend is too taxing for the time being.” She added in a slightly venomous tone.

“Lemme guess,” Anthony said, "It has something to do with…” He trailed off and tapped the side of his throat pointedly. Natasha nodded again, and Anthony smirked, “Well, let’s hope she doesn’t notice the matching set.” He added, looking to Bucky with a wide grin, earning a glare from the latter. Bucky, however, tried to tug his collar up a little higher in an attempt to hide his own.

“You can get off of that high-horse, Shorty.” He said to Stark, “Half the reason I moved out was because of your indiscretion.”

“ _His_ indiscretion?” Steve demanded, jumping to the aid of his boyfriend ( _he’s not my boyfriend! He is a boy, who is a friend—okay, fine, he’s my boyfriend_ ), “Do you know how many times I walked in on you two having sex in the kitchen?”

“Wow, you were _lonely_ before I came along, huh, Spangles?” How Anthony had come up with that nickname for Steve was a mystery to both Natasha and Bucky, and neither of them were eager to suss it out. Steve only glared at Anthony,

“Just for that, next time I’m not saying anything.” He scowled at Anthony, who only laughed. He then turned back to Bucky and Natasha, “But seriously, d’you know how many times?”

“Once.” Natasha replied smoothly, as if they weren’t talking about her being walked in on. Bucky, judging by his slightly mortified expression, had no such composure, and was resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. “The other times, we weren’t having sex.”

“Wow, you really made a habit of this voyeurism thing, didn’t you?” Anthony said lightly, turning to Steve with a raised eyebrow and a stupid grin. Steve rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath that was likely impolite but unlikely profanity. Natasha had learned ever since meeting Steve in college that he was _very_ touchy about language, and after meeting James, she could see why; the man had a dirtier mouth than a sailor (which was _totally fine_ with her, she might add).

“Careful, now, Stark.” Natasha said in a light tone, “If he starts withholding sex it’ll just be you and your right hand again.” Steve and Bucky both made strangled choking noises – though for very different reasons. Steve was now the one who looked _thoroughly mortified_ , and Bucky was trying his hardest not to burst out laughing. Anthony glared daggers at Natasha, but couldn’t find the right words. Instead, he made a plaintive noise to Steve, who, as though on cue, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the temple, offering mollification.

* * *

“Seriously though,” Natasha was saying some time later as they exited their limo and breathed easy, now that the paparazzi were no longer swarming them like so many insects. “We need to be more careful, James. If we get caught, just _once_ then it all comes out.”

“I know, Natalia, don’t worry, I know.” He smiled, following her up the steps to the building’s front door. It was some early hour in the morning, they didn’t know exactly which one, but Jaime was nowhere to be seen, and the only person in the lobby was a single, aging man, who looked like he was about to drop off at his post. Both were inclined to let him – or they would have been if they’d been able to focus on anything other than one another. “But you can hardly blame me. You looked beautiful tonight. I think silver is my new favourite colour.”

“Oh?” She asked with a smile, “Your old favourite colour will be so upset.” James only grinned at her, and ducked his head to nuzzle her neck. She laughed, because it tickled, and pushed him away lightly, because she was a world-famous actress and director and she did _not_ giggle. Or, she hadn’t. She’d done a lot of things she’d never thought she’d do when it had come to James. Giggled. Danced. Fallen in love.

“I doubt it.” He replied, “Scarlet is a very close second.” He pulled her closer now that they were in the elevator, and kissed her deeply. He was helpless to try and resist her, even for a few hours. They were defenceless and powerless and weak to try and oppose or challenge their simple _need_ for one another. Not just their bodies but their minds, their _souls_. He just felt the need to be by her side, talking about current events, joking about whatever Steve had told him, running through lines for his or her latest part. Just being _near_ her. He needed it. And she needed _him_ , too.

“Second, hmm?” She hummed against his lips, trying her best to stave off her desire for the few minutes it would take for them to get back to their apartment. Trying and only half succeeding. “So silver comes first?”

He laughed against her mouth and pulled away to kiss the spot at the top of her jaw, his breath warm and heavy in her ear. “Not when it comes to you,” He murmured, his voice husky from quiet and need, “It’s gorgeous, of course. Scarlet, too. But I think I’d rather nothing at all if it means you’ll be wearing it.”

She laughed again, only partly able to cringe at the terrible line because he _knew_ that spot was sensitive and he _knew_ she could barely think straight as it was, when he was so close and they were both so desperate. “That’s… that’s a really awful line.” She managed to mutter. “Do you save them all for me? I… I’m really… Really fine without them.”

He chuckled again, “I know.” He admitted, “But you’re the only one I get to use my lines on.” She had her hands tangled in his hair again, and pulled his head up to meet hers in a hot, opened mouth kiss – no, more of a claim, really. They were pathetically desperate for one another.

“Damn straight.” She murmured into his mouth, “You’re mine, James Barnes. And I’m yours.”

His amusement was a humming chuckle against her lips, “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	19. First Blush (One Is Paper)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: As predicted, _The Pits: Revolution_ is destroying the box office and amazing the masses. Critics love it, fans _adore_ it, and it really seems like Romanoff and her lineup of stars can do no wrong. We've only just watched the second film, but even now we can't wait until the next! In other news, a curious friendship has struck up between our guilty-pleasure bad-boy and our all-American golden-boy; Anthony Stark and Steve Rogers, respectively. Is this a friendship forged in the wake of their working together? A mutual tiredness from the rumoured arguments between Barnes and Romanoff on set (the cause of which are still unknown)? Does the bad-boy of Tinseltown have a new wingman?

The aftermath of the premiere was even better than the first. The hype for _The Pits: Revolution_ , absolutely _dwarfed_ that of its predecessor, and Bucky would be lying if he said it wasn’t like living on Cloud 9. It was like a dream, really, and he could hardly believe that, just a year ago, he’d been stressing over asking Natasha out, getting to know her as something more than a friend for the very first time. And now they were living together, and stupid in love, and he really didn’t know what to believe or to think, because he was living his dream life; his dream job, with his best friend, and his dream girl. Everything was going… _So well_. He was almost worried it was _too_ good to be true, but he was willing to fight for it if that was the case. His job, Steve, Natasha, all of it. Tooth and nail he’d fight to keep this. He was too far gone to live without it anymore; without his best friend (more of a brother, really) and his girlfriend (more of a goddess, really). He was addicted, and not just to Natasha (though she was hardly insignificant) but to his whole style of living. The thrill of donning a mask and entrancing audiences, of playing parts meant for stars. _He was a star_. And it felt like he was living among them.

“James, are you high?” Natasha asked him one evening, when he relayed this to her with wide-eyed awe and a stupidly large grin. She was looking at him with a small smirk and one perfect eyebrow raised. He’d long-since given up trying to guess how she _always_ managed to look perfect, no matter if she was made up or waking up, if she was in a dress or sweats. Hell, even when she was _ill_ (and she had to be _really_ ill to be persuaded to stay home and not just power through, hopped up on antibiotics and vitamin pills) she was adorable, sneezing and wrapped up in layer upon layer of comfy and unflattering clothing, snuggled under a bed with a red nose, a box of tissues and the temperament of an irritated cat. It was stupid, really, how she always looked gorgeous. Steve had suggested it had something to do with that fact that _he loved her_ , and she didn’t look perfect to everyone, just to him, but that that was all that mattered.

Bucky grinned and pulled her closer, kissing her temple fondly, “On you, maybe.” He said, and she rolled her eyes. It had become a game to them; terrible lines, who could make the other blush with silly embarrassment first and so on. “In general, nah. Haven’t been near the stuff since college.” One particular night in his dorm room when he’d been nineteen had led to a bad (and thoroughly freaky) trip, putting him off the stuff fairly permanently.

She accepted his kiss and returned it with a chaste one of her own, on his cheek. It was slightly scratchy because he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning, so there was a shadow of dark stubble on his chin, which she half liked because it made him look rugged and tough. He hadn’t shaved because there’d been no need to; they were staying in for a few days, waiting until the insane hype died down (also because the rumours of the pair of them being in relationships were running higher than ever, and _still_ the tabloids hadn’t sussed that it wasn’t two relationships, but one). That meant they could both be lazy. No shaving, no make-up, no healthy food, no fancy clothing. Natasha herself was in leggings and one of Bucky's sweatshirts (which was far too large for her, but he kind of loved that), and Bucky was in an equally old t-shirt, and a pair of ripped, worn jeans that had somehow survived since his college days. They’d been curled up on the couch for hours, in fact, watching Netflix and ploughing their way through Bucky’s DVD collection. His horror at discovering that, despite being an internationally acclaimed actress, Natasha had never seen _Star Wars_ (“it’s an American space movie. I am neither American nor interested in space”) had been, frankly, unparalleled, and that had cemented their decision to take a few days out of their hectic lives, live off of pizza and whatever they had in the fridge, and watch TV. It was horrendously lazy and wildly unproductive, but damn if they didn’t love it.

“Are you going out with Steve next Friday?” She then asked him. Bucky paused for a moment. Friday nights he usually met up with Steve. Though they saw each other plenty during the week (and every day when they were working on the same film), Friday nights were typically reserved for the two of them to (as Clint put it) “bro-out” together, which usually meant going to bars, talking about stuff, and (if they got drunk enough) live karaoke. Natasha, despite all her persuasive methods and influence (especially over Bucky), had never managed to convince him to go karaoke-ing with her. But she wasn't to sore about it; Steve was practically his brother. They had to keep some things just between themselves.

“Don’t think so.” He eventually replied, “He and Tony have a… _thing_.” He finished vaguely. He didn’t know, and frankly he didn’t _want_ to know. In his eyes, Steve was still the little child punk he’d met in Brooklyn, and the idea of him… ugh… _having sex_ was little short of repulsive. It was just as bad as thinking of Rebecca—  _oh god, no, no, no, no. Think of something else! Anything else!_ His sister was in college but that meant _nothing_. She was still a kid. And, in her brother’s eyes, she would be a kid forever, and any guy who came _near_ her could expect evisceration and broken limbs.

“A thing.” Natasha repeated blandly. He nodded, and she smirked, “Alright. Maybe you and I should have… _a thing_ , too. After all, it is an important night.”

Bucky looked at her with a half-blank, half-terrified expression. “An important what-now?” He asked gingerly, and cringed, “Was… was I supposed to remember something?” Natasha’s mouth twisted in annoyance, but she didn’t seem overly concerned.

“I would’ve liked if you _had_ , to be honest.” She said in a vaguely disappointed tone, “But then again,” She continued, more dry than annoyed, “I’m speaking to the man who couldn’t tie his own bow-tie until a few months ago.”

“Hey, those things are harder than they look!” He protested indignantly, and she laughed. But then he grew more serious again and thought, “If it’s something important, then I can remember it.” He said, “Just give me a minute…” He thought hard. _No birthdays, I know that much. And it’s not Christmas or anything; it’s the middle of summer._ Hm. This was harder than he thought. What on _earth_ was happening tomorrow? Did they have a special date or— Oh. _Oh_.

Bucky turned to her with a grin, “Guess who just remembered.” He smiled, proud of himself. Natasha returned his smile amusedly.

“Impressive, but maybe next time, try to remember on your own, huh, soldier?” She suggested with a mischievous smile. He gave a sheepish and vaguely apologetic grin, which she then took great pleasure in kissing off of his face. She moved to straddle him on the couch, still relatively chastely, in all honestly, and took a moment – or several – to admire him. Tangled dark hair. Soft brown eyes. Strong jaw, shadowed in stubble. Straight nose and a firm, steady gaze. Simply _kissable_ lips. Sharp, quick mind. Clever humour; the sort that didn’t come from the prideful pricks she was usually forced to associate with. Large hands, resting on her waist; trustworthy and strong. Power; not overly muscular but still strong, still defined, still _exuding_ strength and control and the sort of power she, as a smallish woman, did not possess (which wasn’t to say she didn’t possess power at all). Little scars; tiny cuts from his life, markings of what he had done. Flaws, to anyone else. Imperfections. In her eyes they _were_ perfections. The tiny things that, without, he would have been _too_ perfect, _too_ right, and as such, not perfect at all. All of this, all of what made him, _him_. Hers. Hers to devour and claim and worship and adore. _He’s mine. All of him. Mine, as I’m his._ Every time her thoughts took on that trail, she felt the need to prove it; to her and to him. To mark him in some way; claim him because she was able to and she was the only one who could and he loved it when she did it and she loved doing it.

“ _Ya dumayu, chto lyublyu vas._ ” She murmured to herself, not entirely aware she was thinking out loud. “ _James Buchanan Barnes_.”

Bucky, who – whilst he _adored_ the sound of her speaking in another language, particularly her mother tongue (he’d say he had a kink for it if he didn’t hate the connotations of the word) – spoke very little Russian, frowned slightly in confusion. “What?”

“I said you’ve got ice-cream on your lip.” Natasha lied quickly, wiping away a non-existent smear of something - though they had both powered through a tub; him of double-chocolate chip or something (that was in Natasha's opinion) equally sickly, and her of cookie-dough. What she’d said in reality was just a _little_ too pathetic for her taste, and it still embarrassed her a little how much she loved him, was _in love_ with him. Even after all these months, she was still hesitant to just _give_ herself to someone. Years of terror and threats and, in a way, _conditioning_ , didn’t just vanish, even when she had someone like James to remind her every day. But, he _was_ there to remind her every day, and for that she was thankful, because she was learning. Slowly, but surely, she was unlearning that _love is for children_.

No, it was for everyone, including her. And she loved it. She loved _him_.

Plus, he wasn’t _entirely_ ignorant of the Russian language, and somehow he was able to tell (well, more of a gauge, really, because he was never spot-on), unlike anyone else, when she was lying. So she corrected herself when he raised an unconvinced eyebrow. “Kidding.” She told him, offering a catlike grin.

“So?” He prompted, pulling her a little closer and tilting his head up, not for a kiss, but because he was curious, and he knew she thought he was adorable when he was looking up at her and his eyes were dark with the same pathetic adoration and desire she felt towards him. She smiled down and obliged to translate.

“ _I think I love you, James Buchanan Barnes_.”

At that, he grinned up at her; fully and stupidly, so wide that the only fitting word was _shiteating_. It was a shiteating grin. She’d told him she loved him before. Quite a few times, actually, after the initial fear of that first time – not just in general, but because she was _her_ and she’d grown up as she had and so on. But she’d said it before; she’d said _I love you_ and had even been the one to say it first. Yet, all those times sounded different. Not insincere, god no. But different. Like she’d suddenly had an epiphany just then, and discovered a whole new, and far deeper; far more _profound_ meaning to those words.

James leant up, cupping one of his hands behind her head, and pulled her down for a kiss; long and slow and sated. It was deep and sure; not rushing or frenzied by desire (yet) but a physical show to her of what she’d just said to him. He actually stole her breath; literally kissed her breathless. He pulled apart for a moment, allowing her to catch her breath, and before he stole it again, he whispered,

“I love you too, Natalia Romanova.”

* * *

So, that thing he’d forgotten? Turned out to be a biggie. Like, a _biggie_. He was usually pretty good with remembering things (well, _okay_. He’d forgotten a few birthdays over the years, and on one occasion, his own) but it had escaped him entirely this time – likely because of the hype of the premiere and the release and the interviews and so on. Still, Natasha was being nice about it (which, if he was honest, he hadn’t expected; she’d struck him as the type who’d get pissed off if he forgot a date, which wasn’t to say she _wasn’t_ , but she wasn’t holding it against him either; the woman was an enigma) and hadn’t brought it up or been spiteful.

In fact, she wasn’t even _there_ when he woke up the next morning, which was bizarre. Both of them were pretty early birds when the situation warranted it (ie, when they had work, though right now they were enjoying the few weeks’ slump that came with the first few weeks of a film’s release) and even in the past few weeks, with interviews and meetings and so on, they hadn’t exactly had much time to themselves since the initial few days after the premiere, and had had an irritatingly short amount of personal time. When Bucky woke up to, annoyingly, find the other side of the bed empty of his girlfriend (it was pathetic how much he’d grown to love her warmth next to him at night; how she fit so neatly against him). He sat up groggily, running a hand through his hair. “Natalia?” He called, and he was answered not by a sound, but by the realisation he could smell something cooking. He pulled himself out of bed, tugging on a pair of sweatpants as an afterthought, and came through to the kitchen.

Natasha was standing there, at the stove (which, if they were both honest, they rarely used in the mornings), in, much to his amusement, one of the t-shirts produced for _The Pits_ film series. Caden was on it, turned so his silver arm and red star was clear, looking formidable. It had been a gag-gift for Bucky from Steve, but he personally thought it looked a lot better on her. Aside from a pair of panties, she wasn’t wearing anything else, and her hair was pulled up in a loose, messy bun, some stray curls springing free to brush her neck; almost an invitation. He strode over and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his lips to the spot lightly. She chuckled, “ _Dobroye utro, soldat_.” She murmured, feeling him grin against the back of her neck.

“ _Dobroye utro, Natalia_.” He replied; knowing enough Russian to recognise  _good morning_ when he heard it. Apparently he had a gift for languages (though maybe Natasha was just being nice) and she enjoyed teaching him phrases. He was eager to learn, but it was slow going.

“Sleep okay?” She asked in a lazy, sated voice, evidently planning to take full advantage of this day off – just as well it had fallen on today of all days. He nodded and hummed against her throat, only vaguely aware that it was early afternoon.

“Would’ve slept better if you’d been there.” He told her, “You weren’t back when I went to bed, what happened?” She sighed apologetically,

“Fury called me in last minute,” She said, but he knew that already; they’d been lazing around on the couch yesterday evening, both exhausted from a week of interviews and the like, “Went on longer than I thought it would. Rumlow was being a pain in the ass.” Brock Rumlow was the sort of actor one would cast as a mindless thug – and for good reason; he had been a bodyguard and a bouncer before pursuing acting – and was just as abrasive and pig-headed in real life. He’d had a thing for Natasha for as long as anyone cared to remember, but was a misogynistic pig with a superiority complex. He was one of the many, _many_ reasons they'd almost caved on revealing their relationship to the general public. _Almost_.

“Well, we all know Rumlow lusts you.” Bucky said lightly, “Just forget about him, he’s an idiot."

"Very true." She smirked, "And I already have an idiot of my own." At that, Bucky pouted, which made her laugh and turn to kiss him on the cheek, "You don't have to worry," She promised him, "You are _considerably_ nicer. And cuter."

He frowned, "I'm not cute, I'm sexy." Natasha laughed and rolled her eyes, 

"You're cute _and_ sexy." She compromised, "So you don't have to worry. Rumlow never had a chance, even long before you came into the picture."

This seemed to satisfy him. He kissed her neck again, this time on the side, just over her pulse, “Let’s not talk about him for now, though, huh? Kinda killing the mood.” He added with a small grin. She laughed,

“You’re the one who asked me why I was in so late.” She reminded him, insincerely stern. He shrugged and made a noncommittal noise as he kissed the other side of her neck and pulled her a little closer to him. Much as she wanted to melt into his touch, she resisted, making sure she finished breakfast first. In the few minutes he spent waiting and waking up, Bucky poured himself a coffee and sat down at the dining table, pulling over his tablet and clicking the blinking news icon in the top corner of the screen. He was half amused and half annoyed to find a story by Jane Foster about how Natasha was cheating on her mystery man with someone on the set of _Revolution_. He was still unsure as to how he felt about the “story” (please, it was a fluff piece she was trying to get attention with) when Natasha handed him his plate and they finally sat down.

“You’re being oddly chaste this morning.” He said with an amused smile. She smiled back at him around her eggs,

“Well, as _wonderful_ as you look in the morning,” She smirked, “We have somewhere to be today, and I don’t want to be late.” He looked up from his own plate at that, confused.

“What? Where are we going?” In reply, she pulled an envelope from the counter top and passed it to him. Inside were a pair of tickets, marked with— “A ballet?” He said blankly, “You’re taking me to see a ballet?” Natasha nodded, now vaguely worried that she’d thought wrong and he wouldn’t like it, but then his face split into a blazing grin, and she couldn’t help but smile back. Because it was thanks to him she was okay with going to one. She’d avoided ballet for so long; not even dared to dance, or listen to the music, because she had been so terrified of letting Petrovitch get his claws back into her. But James had scared those fears away; he was the wall between her past and her present. Not the sort she’d built for herself, no. That had locked away her feelings and had been one built on fear and shame. This wall, the one James had built for her, it was of acceptance and the promise that it was all behind her.

“Natalia,” He said, looking concerned, “Are you _sure_ you’re okay with this?” Over their time together, she had been more forthcoming about the details. She’d told him the general consensus on their second date (which in retrospect sounded desperate and needy) but had gradually been more forgiving with the specifics. He knew more than anyone else, the horrors she’d been subjected to in the name of skill and talent and fame. But he didn’t know everything. Much as she loved him (and she _did_ love him, she loved him more than she thought it possible to love someone) she didn’t know if she would _ever_ be able to share all the details. But she’d offered a great many, and for that she was so grateful for how he simply bore that burden, and made her feel safe and loved and whole. Because of him, she could dance again.

So she smiled broadly and nodded, “Thanks to you, I am.” She replied, standing up slightly so she could lean over and kiss him gently. He kissed her back, hand coming up to brush her cheek. Before it got out of hand (because they both knew it would if they weren’t careful) she broke away and sat back down, but didn’t object to having one of her hands held tightly in his, fingers intertwined. She tried (and failed) to suppress a grin; she was _stupidly_ in love with this man, it was really quite ridiculous. She raised their intertwined hands to her lips to plant a kiss on the back of his, before (somewhat regretfully) letting go and heading back into their room. It was two in the afternoon, but the ballet itself didn’t start until seven, and she wanted to catch another couple hours’ sleep before showering and getting ready.

* * *

There was something refreshing about getting dressed up for something other than a premiere or an interview. Something… _classy_ about just going to see a show – or in this case, a ballet. They didn’t do it very often; though about once a month or so, they donned baseball caps and hoodies and went to see a movie, often a late-night showing where the audiences would be smaller, not just for the sake of going unrecognised but because, weirdly (given their professions) neither Natasha nor Bucky particularly _liked_ large crowds. Natasha quite liked the casualness of a hoodie and jeans, and so did Bucky. He had a mental image of her – hair loose in curls, hood pulled up, skinny jeans and sneakers, blowing bubblegum – that was his personal favourite, though he couldn’t say where it had come from. It was as though he had a part of his brain conjuring scenarios like a fashion shoot photographer. At any rate, he filed it along with his first image of her; standing against the glass wall of the living room window, sipping wine in a long white robe and bare feet.

At any rate, it was nice to go out, all dolled up, and not be bombarded by cameras. Natasha, being of the monetary status she was, had a fair few dresses to choose from, though almost as if to counteract the stereotype of the actress (then again, counteracting stereotypes was half the reason she’d become so popular) she rarely shopped around the big-names, where the dresses were mind-numbingly simple and mind-blowingly expensive. Tonight she was in a dress he’d seen her wear a few times before, simple but sweet, it fell to her knees with a high collar and long sleeves, black and sparkling. Complete with black pumps and her hair piled atop her head, she looked glamourous but not “red-carpet” glamourous (that said, he thought she _always_ looked perfect). Bucky himself was smart but still relatively non-red-carpet in a black suit (he’d forgone the red star on the shoulder for the sake of remaining unnoticed, though it had quickly become a favourite of his) and a light blue shirt, but no tie. Both had long, form-fitting black coats and gloves, and looked the picture of class and elegance as they descended down the steps and made their way to the curb, where their taxi was waiting.

Though, it seemed it would have to wait a little longer.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jaime, standing vigil at her usual post by the door, was somewhat negating the point of her job by shouting at a man roughly her age. He was tall and thin, with a scruff of dirty-blonde hair and an unzipped hoodie bearing a band t-shirt for a group Bucky didn’t know. They were arguing furiously, and it seemed that at some point Jaime had pulled him off to the side, a little bit away from the door, onto what could only be described as the building’s “porch”.

“I came to _talk_ to you, Jay!” The boy replied hotly, “You won’t return my calls, you won’t reply to my texts—”

“And you didn’t think that was a _sign_?” Jamie snapped, hands by her fists in anger. Over the past few months she’d abandoned the little ‘bell-hop’ cap she typically wore (it was against uniform policy, but no one was that strict about it; so long as the employees were polite, it wasn't the end of the world if they forewent a hat), in favour of growing her hair longer. She'd tied it in a (short) ponytail that was, for some reason, askew; like it had been pulled. “I told you to _get lost_ , Connor! I told you to beat it!”

“Not without _talking_ to you, first!” The boy – evidently Connor – growled in reply. “I’m not leaving until you _speak_ to me, Jay!”

“The hell you are! I _work_ here, Connor. I have since I was sixteen—”

“Only ‘cause your cousin works here.” Connor muttered, but Jaime continued without pause,

“—and I am _not_ losing my job because my _jackass_ of an ex-boyfriend can’t take _no_ for an answer!” She extended a hand to point down the street, “Now _get lost!_ ”

Connor was not pleased, and strode forwards, grabbing Jaime’s ponytail and yanking her head back. His other hand went to her chest, where he prodded her sharply with his finger as he growled, “ _No one_ tells me what to do, Jay. Not even you. I’ve got some things to say, so you’re gonna _stand here_ , you’re gonna _listen_ and you’re gonna _take me back_.”

“Hey!” Bucky, now within eye- and earshot of the pair, caught Connor’s attention, Natasha even more so with her bright hair and dangerous expression. At once Connor let go of Jaime, her ponytail even more askew (that probably explained why it had been wonky in the first place), and turned to them with a scowl.

“Beat it, one-percent.” He said roughly, “This is a private conversation.”

“Not if you have it in a public space.” Natasha said coolly, “And I don’t think I like your tone. _Or_ your treatment of that girl.” Connor, entirely uncaring about the opinion of (what was in his eyes) a high-society, spoilt-brat of a rich girl, swore and turned back to Jaime – though he didn’t make to touch her again. Not that he had much of a chance to.

“That’s not very polite.” Bucky said in an edged voice. He strode forwards, formidable in his considerable size and breadth, and grabbed Connor by the front of his shirt. “In fact, that was downright rude. You don’t talk to ladies like that, kid. Not to my girlfriend. Not to your ex-girlfriend. Emphasis on _ex_. And I can see why.” He glanced to Jaime and jerked his head slightly, a question. She nodded, she was fine, and he turned back to Connor. “So,” Bucky continued, in a parody of Connor’s earlier tone and demands, “You’re gonna apologise, you’re gonna scram, and you’re not gonna show your face on this _block_ ever again. Understand?” He asked in a low voice.

“Y-yes.” Connor stammered, no longer furious and threatening, but terrified and weak. “Sir.” He added as an afterthought. Bucky nodded smartly and let go of Connor’s shirt. He muttered a rushed sorry to Jaime before scrambling to get away, almost tripping over his feet in the process. Bucky looked to Jaime again.

“Is he the one you told me about a few months ago?” He asked, mildly curious. Jaime shook her head,

“Nah, I just have really crappy taste in guys.” She gave a roughish grin, “Thanks, man. Sorry to, uh… ruin the mood of your evening.”

“Don’t apologise.” Natasha said immediately, “It was his fault, not yours. And besides, I think we owe you a little, given our… for lack of a better term, _secret_.” Jaime gave a short laugh and nodded as if to say _fair enough_ , reaching back to retie her ponytail. Bucky paused thoughtfully,

“You know, I was half surprised he didn’t recognise you.” He said musingly, “I mean, _me_ fair enough, I’m always in a ton of make-up. But your face is all over Hollywood.”

Natasha shrugged, “The Superman Conjecture.” She replied, “Half the time people don’t notice celebrities because they don’t expect the celebrities to be there.”

“That’s actually a thing.” Jaime added, “A bunch of actors have lost look-alike contests for themselves because of it. They enter for a joke and don’t win because everyone has a warped version of them in their heads.” She paused, “And Photoshop.” She added with a grin, “It’s a bitch.”

Bucky and Natasha gave a small laugh and, after again assuring she was alright, bid Jaime a good night and headed to one of their own. It was a short drive to the theatre; a grand building with an even grander history; built and owned by the prestigious Malick family, currently headed by Gideon and his daughter. It had originally been built for pantomimes and the like – HYDRA Films was quite fond of using it as a set, too, and often rented it out for ‘authenticity’ (also, it was a great deal cheaper than building a fake theatre) – but most recently had become the setting for the KGB tour; the _Korolya_ _Gratsioznyy Balet_ , the Graceful King’s Ballet (Natasha insisted it was catchier in Russian). Whilst Natasha herself had been trained by Petrovitch for the famed Bolshoi Ballet company in Moscow, Natasha had joined the KGB in her earlier years to gain experience. She had danced on stage only a handful of times, as she had been a child, but they remained some of her happiest memories in a time that had been little else but fear and darkness.

She was grateful to James for a great many things; a seemingly _infinite_ number of things, and on that list was his willingness to go to see the ballet with her, because she knew that, even if he loved to see _her_ dance, the prospect of a whole evening of _nothing_ but ballet was not quite as exciting for him as it was for her (which wasn’t to say he’d be bored, because he _did_ enjoy it, just not as much as she did). He was good, _too_ good, in putting up with her, but that was part of relationships; doing what the other liked sometimes, just because it made them happy. She, personally, didn’t exactly understand his love of paintballing (though she enjoyed it, once more, she didn’t enjoy it as much as he did) but would happily spend a whole day doing it just to see the grin on his face. Hence, when they filed into the theatre and took their seats (in the _très exclusive_ balcony at the side; with room just for the two of them), she murmured in his ear a _thank you_ , softly kissed his cheek, and silently promised to make the rest of the evening _well_ worth his while.

The ballet itself lasted about two-and-a-half hours, and was a graceful, sad, and really quite beautiful rendition of _Swan Lake_ , famed for its complexity and wildly popular. Even Bucky himself, who knew nothing about ballet, had to admit that it was a lot better than he was expecting, and didn’t find himself bored at all (if he’d been perfectly honest, he had expected to be getting a little uninterested towards the last third or so of the performance, and was pleasantly surprised to find that was not the case). The lead dancer, a tall, willowy blonde, playing the part of the white swan, was lithe and agile, but not, in his opinion, _quite_ as graceful and elegant as Natasha. He wondered idly what it would be like to see _her_ dancing on the stage, in the white feathers of Odette, mourning the unwitting betrayal of her lover.

He was not alone in his appreciation of the dance, though, as the cheers were deafening and raucous at the end of the performance, as the dancers lined up and bowed gracefully, before lightly hopping off into the wings. As the lights came on again, and the audience began to filter out, Bucky noticed that Natasha was wearing probably _the biggest_ smile he’d ever seen on her face; lost in a haze of pleasant memories.

But, as it turned out, he was not _entirely_ correct in the reason for her happiness; she was looking right at him, and said, still grinning widely, “You liked it?”

He nodded, “Actually, yeah.” He replied, her smile becoming infectious and pulling at the corners of his own mouth, “I didn’t think I was going to _dislike_ it, but… that was actually really good.” Natasha stood up and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

“I’m glad. It would’ve kinda sucked if you’d hated it. This is supposed to be _our_ night, after all.” She paused, leaning back so she could face him, hands now loose around his midsection as she smiled up at him, “So,” She then continued, “Should we get going? I have a special surprise for _you_ now.”

He gave a lopsided grin, “Special surprise, huh?” He repeated, and she nodded. “I’m intrigued. Where to?”

She shrugged delicately, and he marvelled for possibly the thousandth time how graceful she was in everything she did – and the fact it seemed that it was only _he_ who was capable of taking that grave away, and reducing her to a quivering wreck, “Home.” She replied coyly. Bucky’s gaze flattened, not in disappointment, but in suspicion; he was trying to guess where she was going with that, but she was a master of deception; she was a world-famous actress, sought after for her incredible talent. She made a living out of tricking people, making them believe she was someone she wasn’t. And, even though he knew her possibly better than any other person alive, she still had some capacity to fool him and keep him in the dark. She smiled and kissed him gently, taking his hand, “Come on.” She said, leading him out of the theatre and into the street, where a cab was waiting.

And Jaime was stood in front of it.

“Hey, guys.” She grinned, having changed out of her ‘bellhop’ uniform and into a white shirt and black pants – frankly she looked a little like a waiter, and she was leaning against the side of the car, twirling keys on her finger. Bucky looked to Natasha for an explanation, but she only grinned and didn’t deign to provide him with one.

However, everything made a little more sense when Jaime drove them not back to their apartment building, but to the airport. The choice of _Jaime_ as the cab driver made even more sense when she popped the trunk to reveal a pair of bags: luggage that Natasha had somehow packed without Bucky noticing.

“Have fun on your trip.” Jaime grinned, throwing a set of keys to Natasha – keys which Bucky noticed as her spare set (Natasha was actually quite terrible for losing things) – and getting back into the cab. Bucky immediately turned to Natasha.

“Is that why I couldn’t find my good shirt yesterday?” He asked, vaguely accusing, and she nodded. “And you lied.” He added, only now realising, “You said we were going home.”

At this, Natasha shook her head, “No, I didn’t.” She said, “I didn’t say that, and I didn’t lie, either.” From the mischievous tone of her voice, and the glitter of amusement in her eyes, he could see it was no use trying to get a straight answer – assuming he got _any_ answer – out of her. She merely passed him his passport, hefted one of the bags onto her back, and took his hand, grinning, leading them into the check-in part of the airport.

Once seeing his ticket, Bucky was only mildly surprised that the destination was Moscow, but truth be told he was a little confused. He’d been under the impression that Russia held only unpleasant memories for Natasha, and that she’d sooner never return.

“It’s my home country,” She told him, once they were on the plane, and he finally found the words to ask. “I was born there, and even if it wasn’t much of a childhood, I _did_ have it there.” She paused, “And, there _are_ a few places where I have happy memories. I’d like to revisit them. Maybe make a few more, with you.” She added with a grin, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

“Well,” He responded, turning his head to kiss her properly – but still relatively chastely, because they _were_ on a plane, in public ( _in first class!_ ) – “That’s another of your terrible lines,” He murmured against her lips, “But I appreciate the sentiment.” He pulled away to look at her and offer the lopsided grin he knew she loved, “Seems right that we should… _make some good memories_ on Saturday.”

Natasha smiled up at him, both because of his grin, and because she was in agreement. “I like the way you think, soldier."

* * *

The little cabin she’d rented, roughly 20 miles outside of Moscow, was quaint in a stereotypical little-wooden-shack kind of way, with the walls made of stacked up logs, a large fireplace, and a sort of garage for them to park the car they’d also rented (because, frankly, neither of them fancied a 7 mile walk to the nearest shop if they ran out of milk or something). It was part of a number of cabins all built on a plot of land that was roughly 20 acres large, dutifully fenced, and highly praised for the atmosphere of seclusion it provided, as well as the safety that, if something bad _did_ happen, there was likely someone close enough to hear a scream. Also, each cabin had a radio that was connected to main cabin in the centre of the (for lack of a better term) park. So that was good.

But, in short, it was private, it was warm, and there was something _freeing_ about it. They could walk around and chat with locals and they wouldn’t stand _nearly_ as big a chance of being recognised as they would in the US. The park itself was pretty remote, all things considered. Despite being only a few miles out from a big city – though perhaps that was why it was remote; all the people magnetised towards the city and thus left almost a “ring” of almost-deserted land outside of it – not many people were in the park, and many passed it by altogether. There was exactly one road passing through the center of the park, and in the middle of that road was the main cabin where the owner lived and where all monetary business was conducted. To get to the other cabins there were worn down dirt tracks lined with coniferous trees, and the wildlife was relatively untouched; foxes and deer and the like stalked about quite brazenly.

“I like it.” Bucky announced, dropping his bag on the couch of the cabin’s living room. “It’s cosy.” He turned to see the large fireplace and grinned, “Like something out of a romance novel.” Another image popped up in his head; Natasha, hair loose and flowing over one shoulder, lying on her side, draped across the rug in front of a blazing fire, which highlighted her hair and lined the curves of her figure in gold. That was an image he could easily make a reality – and frankly he intended to, if they had three whole days here. He wanted to defile every quaint little surface of this cabin, and make use of the fact that there was no one in relative earshot.

“Glad you think so.” She replied, “Would’ve sucked a bit of you didn’t.” It was afternoon in Russia, given that their flight had departed at 1am, and there was a 10-hour time change. She had some serious jet-lag and would not fall asleep until the wee hours, most likely. This was probably helped by the fact that they’d both slept a little on the plane. “I’m gonna change into something a little more comfortable,” She then announced; she was still wearing the dress from the ballet. She hefted her bag onto her shoulder again and disappeared into the bedroom. Upon entrance she decided that it was simply _begging_ to be used, even in a non-carnal fashion; plush pillows, soft sheets, mahogany wood making a four-poster, with curtains to be drawn about for a modicum of privacy (as if the fact they were alone wasn’t private enough). Putting her bag on top of the dresser, she took off her dress and, from the bag, pulled her battle armour for the evening. She allowed herself a small smirk as she applied a little make-up, just for effect, and amused herself with scenarios of what James’ reaction would be.

She didn’t have to wait too long.

Bucky was wandering around the rest of the cabin, getting his bearings and finding out what rooms were where; for example, the bathroom, kitchen, utility room and a spare guest room (not that they’d need to use it). There was some food in the kitchen; bread, eggs, milk and so on. Nothing super exotic, except perhaps (depending on your point of view) the trio of large vodka bottles – which, if he remembered what Natasha had told him a few months ago, were of the really good authentic stuff.

“James,” Natasha’s voice came from the bedroom, and she almost kicked herself because she sounded just a _little_ too coy and she was trying _not_ to tip him off – luckily he didn’t seem to notice, “Can you come and help me with something, please?” Thinking she’d found a spider or something, and was trying to be calm, Bucky put down the vodka bottle he was examining and headed into the bedroom. The lights were off when he entered, the heavy curtains over the windows drawn, and the curtains flanking the four-poster were, too. Only by standing at the foot of the bed, where they’d been left open, could he see where she was lying.

And his jaw _dropped_.

 _Oh my god…_ And that was where his cognitive function shorted out completely. How had she remembered? How had she managed to sneak it under Peggy Carter’s nose? Natasha was lying on the bed on her left side, one elbow propping up her upper body, forearm running parallel to her torso, hand by her ribcage. Her other arm was draped along her waist, resting on the curve of her hip, her right leg bent at the knee to provide a more dramatic curve to her silhouette. Her hair was loose, falling in scarlet tangles, just _begging_ to be mussed up, and her make-up was light; natural, but “Hollywood” natural. But, of course, what he noticed most was her attire.

Somehow, she was wearing her catsuit from _Budapest_. The one she’d promised to keep a version of for just such an occasion as this, but in recent months, and with everything that had happened, he had forgotten it entirely. It was matte leather, and typically it had been zipped to her collar on set, a dramatic but entirely decent (and plausible - given her superspy character had been running around and jumping and having breasts springing free would have been _highly_ inappropriate and inconvenient) neckline, but now it was unzipped the top of her sternum, bearing the curves of her breasts, and making clear the fact she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. A red hourglass sigil, her character's "logo", glinted level with her hips, as though a little marker to his eventual prize, matching the hue of her hair. She looked like the world’s-best-superspy she’d been cast to play, a master of murder and seduction and espionage and interrogation. She looked powerful. She looked dangerous.

She looked _gorgeous_.

And she was smirking up at him; evidently pleased with the reaction she’d reaped from him. Her lips spread into a wide smile, but she didn’t move from the bed. She stayed still, and only asked, “Well? Are you going to help me or not?” It seemed that she’d well and truly shorted out his mind, because he was still gaping at her, positively bug-eyed, and did not provide an answer. When she rolled onto her back, the arm on her hip coming to rest above her head on the mattress, her eyes not leaving his and her other hand playing with the zipper of her suit, he managed to close his mouth and swallow hard. She was just _begging_ to be ravished, and she knew she had him in the palm of her hand - they both did. Her hand went to brush over her breast, and she let out a mewl that made him, in turn, give a strangled groan. That sight seemed to be enough to shunt his mind back into action, and he stepped forwards, crawling up the bed and attacking her with his mouth. She ripped at the top of his shirt and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone. He groaned again, and she smirked as she murmured against his skin.

“Happy anniversary, soldier.”


	20. Candy-Cane Red and Holly Green (Prettiest Girl I've Seen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Happy Holiday! The Scarlet Starlet continues to amaze with her tight-lipped hold on the identity of her Mystery Man, though sources confirm that is it _not_ her co-star for _Budapest_ , Dr Bruce Banner, who has been at the height of the speculation until recently. C'mon, Natasha! Just a hint will do! In other news, our favourite two boys have got their Christmas on as we have the first look inside their apartment for the holiday season -- that's right! We have _the_ first picture of this year's decorations! And, our favourite guilty-please boy-toy, Anthony Stark, has been confirmed by his new friend Steve Rogers, to have a LADY in his life! Rogers confirmed that Anthony had begun seeing someone, and that " _they're differently to anyone he's ever dated before, very different. But in a good way I think. They're good for each other and I wish them both the best_ " But, like his director, he seems incapable of name-dropping. Boo.

Christmas that year was crystal white and snowy. Fat, fluffy flakes fell from the sky in flurries (try saying that five times fast) and covered the world in the sort of magic that was intrinsic and unique to a Christmas-time blizzard. Log fires burned merrily in iron grates, and stockings hug over them, warming families and couples who were living in a daze of cinnamon and candy-canes and goodwill.

The previous year, their relationship had been still in its budding stages, and they’d had other plans, anyway. Natasha had gone to stay with Clint and (then pregnant) Laura and the kids, and Bucky had taken the train up with Steve to visit their mothers and Bucky’s little sister, Rebecca. This year, Steve was taking his mother somewhere warm and sunny with Anthony and Jarvis (apparently Stark had insisted upon Steve’s mother coming along, which was charming, oddly – oddly because it was _Stark_ – and it seemed like Jarvis was the closest thing Anthony had to a father) and Bucky was instead taking Natasha up to meet his mother and sister.

The prospect was, frankly, daunting, because she’d never been a relationship so serious as to end up meeting her boyfriend’s parents, and she’d heard so much about Rebecca and Winnifred (whom James had instead to just call _Winnie_ , because everyone did) that she was worried they wouldn’t like her. She wasn’t exactly _sweet and wholesome_ , and if her and James’ genders were reversed, it would feel like a cliché teen movie. But, she was also eager to meet them, because they sounded absolutely wonderful, and if they were related to James, then chances were they _would_ be. Plus, she wasn’t about to refuse, because she knew that would put a damper on his holiday mood.

And _boy_ did he have one.

Their home, now that it was shared, had fallen victim to what, previously, Bucky and Steve’s apartment had. Oddly enough, the papers couldn’t get enough of what she and Steve had mutually dubbed the “tinsel explosion”, and for the past few years the boys had had to deal with paparazzi trying every which-way to get into the apartment and take a snap of the (quite literally) festooned apartment. Ever since _Howling Commandos_ , really, which had been the war film to paint Steve and Bucky as a pair in their critically acclaimed acting. They’d managed to get away with a fair amount of intrusion this year by using one simple technique; if one paparazzi person got in, then none of the others were interested, because the thing they wanted was the _first_ shot. No one cared about the second.

It had taken twenty-bucks-plus-expenses (which basically meant _you buy the camera_ ) to get Jaime, under the guise of a reporter-under-the-guise-of-a-pizza-delivery-girl, to “break in” to Steve and Bucky’s apartment (as far as the press were concerned, they still lived together) and take a very staged picture of their living room covered in decorations, which had, almost immediately after Jaime had sent off the picture to a magazine of Steve’s choice (he’d gone with _The Tesseract Times_ ), been taken down and transferred to Bucky’s _real_ home, which he shared, obviously, with Natasha.

Speaking of which, she wasn’t sure how to react to the yuletide bomb in her home. Natasha always had a tree in her living room; seven-feet-tall and fake, decorated with elegant baubles, fairylights and tinsel, but now it felt like Christmas had _exploded_ inside of their home. A wreath adorned the front door, there was tinsel pinned up along the tops of the walls, mistletoe hanging in every doorway, a pair of large stockings over her fireplace, a Christmassy throw or cushion (or both) on every seat and sofa, little bushels of fake holly and candycanes were strewn about the place, and there was a seemingly untraceable smell of cinnamon in the air (she’d looked all over the apartment and found neither a scented air-freshener, nor any _actual_ cinnamon). To top it all off, James had refused to take off the reindeer antlers and red nose. He’d managed to coerce her into donning a red Santa hat, and, loathe as she was to admit it, it was growing on her.

They took the train over to where James’ mother and sister lived, because neither of them had a car, nor did they fancy a flight in the height of the holiday season – also, it didn’t require a driver’s licence or a passport or anything involving their name on the tickets. Around six months ago, James _had_ had a car, but only for about a month, because they both knew there was little point in owning one in such a large city. So, Natasha was spending her hours gazing out of the window as she watched the country roll by, some bedecked in snow, some not, all very Christmassy.

 _My head itches_. She thought, but, for the sake of being careful, she’d donned the same blonde wig she’d used to play Yelena’s _Shayera_ almost a year and a half ago on the set of _The Pits_. It did well to disguise her; she was the _Scarlet_ Starlet for a reason, after all, but it was uncomfortable. She was many things, but a make-up artist or costumer was not one of them, and even years after she’d started wearing wigs to throw off public scent, she could never get it to sit perfectly comfortably.

James, the lucky bastard he was, got away with pretend reading glasses and a few weeks’ scruff (she was looking forward to when he shaved it off, though. A bit of stubble was cute, but she generally preferred her men clean-shaven), and had not ceased pointing that out to her.

Across the little table of the seats, said lucky bastard had pulled out his laptop, and looked almost entirely different in glasses, facial hair and a beanie (he looked like a hipster and she wasn’t sure she liked that; it was a little unnerving, frankly). She had decided not to bring her own laptop, because otherwise she _would_ be on it all weekend (she was a self-confessed workaholic and knew how best to prevent it from getting out of hand – namely by eliminating the possibility of her being _able_ to work) and had instead brought along a number of books in case James’ family hated her and didn’t want to talk to her (she was in no way inclined to force herself upon them simply because she had nothing else to do). Whilst she had a tablet (which she sometimes used for work) she preferred the weight of the book in her hand, and the smell of the pages. There was just something _nicer_ about a hard-copy book. In an attempt to get into the Yuletide spirit, she’d brought along (among others), Dickens’ _A Christmas Carol_.

Bucky looked up from his laptop (she honestly had no idea what he was doing on it, though, because there was no internet access on the train), and smiled, “Finally getting seasonal, are we?” He asked her, and she smiled back.

“Maybe a bit.” She admitted, not bothering to hide her bookmark; a cheap little gag gift he’d picked up from a bookstore. It was silvery and decorated with a sprig of holly. “Not _too_ much, though.” She added, because none of her other books were remotely festive. Ever a fan of the classics, she had Dante’s _Inferno_ (in English, because she couldn’t read Italian) in her hands and Golding’s _Lord of the Flies_ in case she finished it. Bucky leant over the table to look at her backpack on the seat beside her. He pulled out _Lord of the Flies_ and examined the blurb mildly. “I think I read this in senior English class.” He said, “This is the one where they go nuts and kill each other, right?”

Natasha’s expression flattened as she plucked the book from his fingers, “They don’t _kill each other_ , James.” She said primly. They had discussed the idea of using fake names on transport, but had come to the conclusion that _James_ was obscure enough, as the press knew him as Bucky. She herself was going as _Natalie_ for the day. “They regress. Only a few of them actually die.” James only shrugged and turned back to his computer. She smirked, suddenly getting an idea on what he might be doing, “Are you ordering another coffin?”

At that, the man in the seat across the aisle from them turned sharply and gave them a very concerned look, which they both noticed but didn’t acknowledge. Bucky nodded, “Yes. I can’t remember the dimensions, though. How thick was it?” Unhelpfully, Natasha held out her hand, fingers pinched in an approximation of the script’s thickness. Roughly three centimetres. Bucky rolled his eyes, “Never mind, I’ll do it when we get back.”

“Speaking of which, if you still think you’re moving your script collection into the apartment, you can think again.” She added, “Books, fine, but not your little coffins.” Bucky had long-since given up protesting that _they weren’t coffins_ but to no avail. Besides, in the years to come, _he’d_ be the one laughing when they were all still in pristine condition. All of Natasha’s books, whilst she took good care of them (she’d shouted at him for dog-earing one of the pages once, and he hadn’t been allowed to borrow a book for two months) they were well-worn in a loved-but-old way. Not to say that was _bad_ , but it meant they would eventually be worn to pieces.

He gave her a lopsided grin and leant up to kiss her, quickly and sweetly, “I’m wearing you _do-own_.” He said in a singsong.

She offered him a smile back, “No, you’re _no-ot_.” She replied in the same musical lilt, and returned his kiss, “But _A_ for effort.”

Bucky winked with a grin, “As always.” He noted, winking suggestively and making her laugh. The man across the aisle, now relatively confident they _weren’t_ murderers, smiled at their _young love_ and turned back to his newspaper with a small smile, completely unaware that the blonde girl and the hipster were, in fact, two internationally acclaimed actors.

* * *

When arriving at the station, Natasha had expected to have to call a cab or (if Bucky’s family were feeling generous) find one already waiting. When she and Bucky stepped off the train and walked up the platform, she hadn’t expected them to actually _be_ there. She was half flattered and half terrified, because that gave her less time to prepare.

“Jimmy!” A girl’s voice rang out clear over the hubbub of the crowds, and Bucky turned to see a young woman running towards him. Bucky barely had time to shrug his backpack off of his shoulder before she had her arms around his neck and was hugging him tightly. Laughing, Bucky hugged her back with such vigour that he lifted her off the ground.

“Hey, Becks.” He grinned, kissing her forehead when they pulled apart, and rubbing her head (which made her scowl). Rebecca then noticed Natasha, and didn’t hesitate to pull _her_ into an equally tight hug. It wasn’t a childish motion; that of a six-year-old who’d hug anyone deemed a friend, but that of simply a friendly young woman, and, whilst a little startled by the affection, Natasha smiled and hugged Rebecca back, if a little awkward.

“You must be Natasha.” Rebecca grinned widely, and Natasha saw a great deal of her brother in her. They both had the same brown, curling hair; big, soft eyes; and large grins, but despite the similarities, Rebecca’s eyes were hazel rather than brown. She also had a slightly taller, slenderer build than her brother’s (which was stockier), standing at 5’7”, only two inches shorter than him, and on a dead level with Natasha. Rebecca’s long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was wearing jeans, sneakers and a green coat. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” Natasha grinned, “James has told me a lot about you, Rebecca—”

Rebecca waved a hand dismissively, “Please, call me Becky.” She said, “And if you think Jimmy’s been gushing about _me_ , then you should hear his phone conversations with us. He can’t _stop_ gushing about you—” She stopped talking when Bucky nudged her with his shoulder and gave a pointed look, only to laugh at him. Natasha turned to him and raised an eyebrow, smirking.

“Jimmy?” She was all she said, clearly amused. A stripe of red appeared across Bucky’s face (he was starting to regret this trip now), and Becky nodded.

“Yeah, it was Steve who started calling him Bucky, but it caught on fast.” She leant up to ruffle her brother’s hair (or, at least, the bit sticking out of the front fo his beanie) – likely in retaliation of earlier, “But he’ll always be _Jimmy_ to us!” She added with a laugh. “Even Mom calls him that; only calls him _James_ when he’s in trouble.” She turned back to her brother, “By the way, what the hell are you wearing?”

James, clearly having forgotten he was wearing the glasses and beanie, flushed a little more. “Disguise.” He muttered, and Becky nodded as though that explained everything – though it probably did when your older brother was one of the most famous actors in the world. So Becky smiled and instead cuffed him lightly on the jaw.

“Mom’ll have fun with that, by the way.” She said, rubbing her own jaw in reference to his scruff. Natasha grinned, deciding she might actually enjoy this trip (in all honesty she had been terrified they’d hate her, and had been more than a little apprehensive).

“Speaking of Mom,” He said, pushing his sister lightly, “Where is she?” At this, Becky looked around, as though only just realising her mother wasn’t present.

“Must’ve gotten lost in the crowd…” She mused, and Bucky rolled his eyes (it seemed that was a common occurrence, and it was. His sister was lean, long-legged, and fast – she’d broke her school’s running record in her sophomore year, and again in her senior). “Let’s go find her, come on!” Ignoring Natasha’s protests and insisting _you’re a guest_ , Rebecca picked up Natasha’s bag and pulled it onto her own shoulder, Bucky following suit with his own, and sprinted off into the crowd. She was long-legged and fast, but not so fast that the others (bear in mind they had to keep in shape for their jobs) couldn’t keep pace. After a few minutes of weaving through the crowds, Natasha spotted a woman in her fifties or so standing patiently, and her eyes lit up when she caught sight of Rebecca and Bucky.

“Jimmy!” She said in a distinctly motherly tone, holding out her arms and pulling her son (who towered over her by at least half a foot) into a warm hug that made Natasha smile with the sweetness of it all (god, the season was making her _mushy_ ). After releasing Bucky from her embrace, she turned to Natasha and (she now saw where Rebecca got it from) pulled _her_ into a hug, too.

“And Natasha.” She smiled, “My, you’re as beautiful as he said, dear.” She added, hands on Natasha’s shoulders fondly.

“Thank you. You must be Mrs Barnes.” Natasha replied with a smile, “It’s great to finally meet you, you’re as lovely as James said.”

“Call me Winnie, dear.” The older woman insisted. She had the same large grin as her children, and her eyes were hazel, like Rebecca’s. Her hair, brown but greying, was curling and fell loose about her shoulders, and she was dressed smartly. “I’m only Mrs Barnes to the bank.” She added with a smile.

“Winnie.” Natasha confirmed, “Nice to meet you. James speaks about you all the time.”

Winnie laughed, “I’m sure he doesn’t dear, but that’s nice of you to say. Jimmy can be quite private about his family, but for good reason, I suppose. You’d understand that, wouldn’t you?” Of course, both Rebecca and Winnie knew Bucky was an actor, and that Natasha was one (and a director), too. So Natasha nodded.

“We’ve been lucky enough that the papers haven’t caught on to… _us_.” Natasha told Winnie as they walked to the car. Bucky and Rebecca were slightly ahead, talking and joking loudly and fondly, as siblings do (not that she’d know). “We both like our privacy.”

“I can see that – I was wondering why you were blonde.” Winnie said with an amused smile, “Jimmy… he’s been very good. Doesn’t brawl, doesn’t get into trouble. You know I was terrified when he first moved to Hollywood. _Convinced_ he would end up in too deep, or worse. But he’s always been a good boy; kept his feet on the ground. I think it helped, having Steve there with him.”

Natasha nodded, “They ground one another.” She agreed, “I know Steve, too. Me, him and Peggy Carter, we were thick as thieves in college.” Winnie turned to her sharply.

“Oh, so you’re _that_ Natasha!” She exclaimed, “Jimmy _said_ you knew Steve, I just didn’t realise…” She broke off in an amused chuckle, “Well, silly me for not realising— James, leave your sister alone!” Bucky, who had caught Rebecca in a headlock and was rubbing his fist against the top of her hair, laughing as she squirmed to get away, stopped dead and stood up straight, faintly embarrassed (maybe because he was a grown man getting told off by his mother, or maybe it was because Natasha was there). Natasha laughed as Rebecca looked at him smugly, then proceeded to ask her mother for the car keys. Winnie sighed and handed them over, saying, “Be _careful_.” Which seemed incredibly necessary judging by Rebecca’s subsequent and very evil giggle.

* * *

Bucky’s childhood home was exactly as he remembered it, but then, why would anyone mess with perfection? It was a smallish house in Brooklyn, though over the past few years he’d gotten enough money to be in a position to give some to his mother and sister (despite their protests) to fix it up properly. The wallpaper was vibrant and new (and not covered in the awful patterns of the 1970s), the carpets were no longer threadbare, and Rebecca’s coat, by the looks of things, was brand new. The car, he’d been able to tell by the sound of the engine, had gotten that tune up it had so desperately needed, and new tapestries (a hobby of Winnie’s; she especially liked the flower ones) decorated the walls of the living room and the staircase.

His last visit had been the previous Christmas with Steve, but it was different this time, because now he’d brought a _girl_ home. He’d brought a girl home to his family. Natasha seemed somewhat awed by his home; something so cosy and friendly. He supposed she’d never really had something like that for herself, and enjoyed seeing her discovering everything, even when she grinned at the many photos of him and Rebecca in their younger years. At nineteen, Rebecca was home from her first semester of college, and was ten years Bucky’s junior. This large age-gap had helped their relationship, however, and Bucky had been fiercely protective of her. Even in the photos – a gap-toothed grin as he held a bundle of blankets up to the camera, a trying-to-be-cool-but-secretly-caring smirk as a six-year-old Becky piggy-backed him, a sappy smile full of pride as Becky held up her high-school diploma – it was clear they were close.

It was good to be home.

Even better with Natasha. She was admiring his bookcase – now topped with a thin layer of dust and covered with as many knick-knacks as it was books – with mild amusement, lightly dragging her finger over the spines of some of the books. When his grandfather (an avid reader) had died, he, like everyone else, had gotten his pick of the man’s literature, and had scooped up a couple of the classics. They were yellow with age, but still beautiful; something Natasha, as a reader herself, could appreciate. With a smile, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close for a kiss.

“Ugh, Jim, can you at least close the door?” The pair pulled apart quickly to see Rebecca standing there, hand raised as though to shield her eyes from the sun. She was grimacing in a distinctly ‘little sister’ sort of way. Natasha stifled a laugh, and Bucky made a face at her.

“What d’you want?” He asked, not unkindly. Rebecca pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.

“Mom wants to talk to you.” She replied, “Dunno about what.” But she was smirking slightly in a way that suggested she _did_. With a glance to Natasha and a shrug, Bucky unwrapped his arms from around her waist and squeezed past his sister to head downstairs. And so, it was only Natasha and Rebecca in the room, for the first time, alone together. Natasha wondered if Rebecca had something to say, because she was lingering and, sensing the girl probably wouldn’t speak unless she was jolted to, deigned to prompt her.

“Yes?” Natasha asked her.

“Can I have your autograph?” Rebecca blurted, then blushed and cringed, “No, wait, sorry, that was rude. You came here to get _away_ from the fans, but I just—”

“It’s fine.” Natasha cut across in a smile, “James said you were, a… fan of mine. I’m flattered.”

Rebecca raised her eyebrows, “Flattered?” She echoed, and Natasha grinned,

“I have his little sister’s stamp of approval.” She explained, “That’s hardly a _bad_ thing.” She grinned, “Now, do you have a camera?”

* * *

“Yeah, Mom?” Bucky asked, heading into the kitchen and seeing his mother at the counter, chopping vegetables. She was an unparalleled cook, in his opinion, and always slaved for hours, every Christmas Eve, without fail, to make Christmas dinner. She looked up to see her son standing in the doorway, and smiled,

“Jimmy.” She said, “Don’t think you can get away with it this year just because you brought a girl home.” She chastised lightly, and pointed with the kitchen knife to a coatrack on the wall – only it didn’t hold coats. “You know which one’s yours, and I need someone to stuff the turkey.” With a small smile (even though he _really_ hated shoving his hand up a turkey), Bucky obliged, because this was Christmas with his family and Natasha, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Natasha, she seems like a nice young woman.” Winnie said as she continued chopping vegetables and throwing them into a large pot. Bucky nodded, but his mother’s choice of words made him wonder if she perhaps didn’t approve. He looked up from across the kitchen island,

“She is.” He replied with a smile, “I’d known her for almost a year before we started dating. She’s a great director.”

“That’s nice, dear, but if I’m honest I don’t care if she’s a good director or not.” Winnie said in a tone that was light but not without a point. She looked up at her son with an almost _grave_ expression. “I care if you love her. If you see this going anywhere meaningful…” She paused, “I care if you make one another _happy_.” At this, Bucky smiled and manoeuvred around the island to pull his mother into a hug, laughing softly, because he’d almost forgotten how much his mother simple _cared_. It had been too long since he’d been home. Far too long.

“She does, Mom.” He promised her, “She _really_ does.” He pulled back and kissed her on the forehead, “And as for this _going_ anywhere, I must’ve failed to mention that we actually have a house together.” He added, slightly dryly. Winnie stared at him and pulled him in for another (though considerably more bone-crushing) hug, proclaiming _my little boy’s all grown up!_ “It’s—” He began in a strained voice – because Winnie was a lot stronger than she looked, “We’re not–––I mean, she’s not––– _Mom!_ ” He eventually cried, and Winnie let go of him, vaguely sheepish.

“Sorry.” She murmured, but she was still smiling widely, “It’s just…” She waved her hands vaguely, trying to find the words, then looked at him with a soft smile, “It’s wonderful to see you’ve found someone who makes you happy.”

* * *

Rebecca was grinning stupidly largely but she really didn’t care. Her birthday present from Jimmy that year had been a brand-new polaroid camera (she wanted to be a professional photographer and her degree was as such), so the picture Natasha had offered to snap of the two of them standing with their arms on one another’s shoulders came out _beautifully_. Even more so when Natasha signed it. Un the days leading up to her visit (and Jimmy’s) home, she’d been hesitant (read: _terrified_ ) about meeting the _Scarlet Starlet_ for three reasons. One: the standard _never meet your heroes_ deal. Two: she was an _actress_ , what if she was a massive _snob_? Three: she was _her older brother’s girlfriend_ , what could she say to Jimmy if she hated his girlfriend? Or his girlfriend hated him?

But no, if anything, Natasha seemed slightly _awed_ by the whole thing – which didn’t really make sense, but then Natasha had been acting from a young age, so maybe she’d never known a proper home (though her reasoning was a little off, Rebecca was pretty close to the mark) and Rebecca was realising quickly that she had been worried about nothing.

After thanking her profusely, Rebecca left to place the picture in her own room (maybe find a frame for it, though she was pretty sure she’d rather die than tell Jimmy that), and thus Natasha was alone in James’ room. There was something odd about it; something unfamiliar, yet entirely so. Maybe because she was so familiar with James, but not with his family, or with family life in general. She’d spoken to him about her childhood, and he about his, but she didn’t _know_ it. It was like going to a foreign country after having simply read a hand-guide. You didn’t know the language, the people, the lay of the land. She’d never known a room like this; a child’s room with interests and fun and laughter. There was a worn stuffed bear, covered in stitches, sitting at the head of the bed, looking a little lonely. The idea of a baby James (and she’d seen picture of him as a kid, so it wasn’t hard to imagine) falling asleep, holding this bear, made her grin as wide as Rebecca. There were school certificates on the wall, ranging in age; including first place in a third-grade spelling bee (she’d never understood why they were called spelling _bees_ , because they had nothing to do with insects) and one from his senior year of high-school proclaiming he (or rather, his group) had won a drama competition.

There were also posters. Old films (a large one of _Back to the Future_ held pride of place above his bed) featured mainly, but there was an… _interesting_ one of a scantily clad young woman tacked to the ceiling. Natasha noted she was a redhead, then turned away. On the doorway were a series of marks with dates – presumably his height over the years – and she was amused to discover that he had been absolutely _tiny_ as a child. On his dresser were mostly baseballs, tennis balls; anything to be thrown and caught, and several photos of James and Becky, James and Steve, Rebecca and Winnie, and a very old, formal picture of a man with James’ eyes and strong jawline in military uniform. Likely the late Mr Barnes, Winnie’s dead husband. She knew he had died when Rebecca had been only two years old, so James would have been plenty old enough to remember the man, but not nearly old enough to become one. That had meant nothing, though. He’d become the man of the family, he’d had to. And, having done so at such a young age, it explained his protectiveness of Winnie and Rebecca, as well as the ‘big brother vibes’ he had around Steve.

“Hey.” A soft voice made her turn around to see James standing in the doorway. She smiled,

“Hey, yourself.” Her eyes darted down to what he was wearing. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and was wearing an apron that stated clearly _Kiss the Cook_ with a large lipstick print over the word _cook_. Bucky blushed and muttered something about it being a _gag gift_ , and _we all have aprons_ and _I think it’s funny_. Natasha only looked back up at him and grinned at his fluster, “Don’t mind if I do.” She added, kissing him slowly, hardly even bothered by the itchiness of his beard. He laughed,

“Yeah, Mom always makes me and Becks help out with Christmas dinner.” He said, “I’m not complaining, of course, she works hard, but I was wondering what you were up to – managed to sneak away for a minute.” He kissed her again, softly but quickly, “So what’re you doing?”

She shrugged, “Picking the mind of a teenaged James Barnes.” She replied lightly, “Should I brace myself to accidentally uncover a stash of porn?”

James raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, but amused, “Frankly, I’d be surprised. Mom cleaned out all that stuff when I left for college, and she’s not one to miss hiding places.”

“I’m sure you gave her plenty of practice finding them.” Natasha said mildly. James gave a small laugh, and she continued, “Of course, I was hoping you’d think more of me than to just rifle through your things. I was giving your sister an autograph.” James raised his eyebrow again, this time curious.

“Becks asked you for an autograph?” He asked, and she nodded,

“She was really sweet about it, I like her.” Natasha told him, “And your mother’s so _nice_. Do you think they like me?” She had voiced these concerns a few times over the weeks leading up to this trip, and he had always assured her with a smile and a kiss that yes, they’d _love_ her. He turned to smile at her now, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close.

“I _promise_ you, they do.” He said, “You’re you, and they’re them, and I love you, and I love them. Becks practically screamed down the phone when I told her that we were dating, she’s actually a pretty big fan of yours. And Mom’s been telling me since I was sixteen to find someone who makes me happy. Well… you make me happy.”

Natasha smiled up at him, “You make me happy, too.” She replied, leaning up to kiss him. Before their lips met, however, she added, “ _Jimmy_.” And he jerked away in surprise, a blank expression on his face. She smirked, amused, “Not a fan?” She asked,

“Not… _exactly_.” He admitted, “I just… you’re the only one who calls me James. They’re the only ones who call me Jimmy. I… I like the exclusivity, y’know?” Natasha nodded with a small laugh,

“No, I get it.” She promised, “I prefer _James_ anyway.” She smiled and pecked him on the nose, “I like that I’m the only one, though. I always kind of assumed your mother would call you that – and I don’t just mean when you’re misbehaving or whatever. I mean, she _named_ you James.”

He shrugged, “Steve’s full name is Steven, but I’ve never heard Sarah call him that – unless she was really angry. And, I don’t know how they do it over in _Russia_ ,” He said with a dry smile, “But I’m pretty sure the only reason kids have middle names is so their parents can sound threatening.”

Natasha looked amused, “So, what? _James Buchanan Barnes, you clean your room right now?_ ” She offered, and he nodded with a laugh.

“Something like that, yeah.” He admitted, grinning. She smiled and kissed him gently, and something tugged at her mind.

“I don’t know much about the presidents, but wasn’t one of them called James Buchanan?” She noted lightly. Bucky nodded.

“He was. And he was remembered for exactly three things: he couldn’t stop the civil war, he was almost definitely gay, and he could apparently hear through walls.”

“Sounds just like you.” She noted dryly, and he rolled his eyes. Whilst doing so, he happened to look at the ceiling, and grimaced, only now realising the poster was still there.

“Aw, crap.” He muttered, pulling away from her embrace to stand on the bed and reach for the poster taped above. “Should’ve asked Becks to take this down beforehand.” He said to himself, “Real mature; grown-ass man with a teenager’s fetish poster above his bed.”

“I thought it was funny.” Natasha replied in a deadpan, which turned into a smirk. She stepped back as he climbed up on his bed, watching as he reached to pull it down, admiring the muscles of his back and shoulders. Luckily, he didn’t make quick work of the activity, having clearly used decent adhesive when first hanging it up.

“Glad you think so, _I_ don’t.” He replied, “Should’ve put Vera away when I moved out.”

“ _Vera?_ ” Natasha asked gleefully, and Bucky’s arms dropped in embarrassment, and he bowed his head, swearing under his breath. Natasha only laughed, and stepped up to stand on the bed beside him and offer consolation in the form of a kiss, before reaching up and pulling _Vera_ down. “I half want to leave it up.” She said, amused. “Surely it’s kind of nice, waking up and seeing someone smiling down at you.”

“ _You_ are much better to wake up to than a fifteen-year-old pinup.” Bucky replied flatly, rolling up the poster and climbing off the bed to tuck it in a corner. “And if you’re thinking of replacing it with a horror poster or a cut-out of Benedict Cumberbatch, Becks has beat you to it about ten times over.”

To be honest, Natasha _had_ thought about it – well, the horror poster thing, anyway. “Benedict Cumberbatch?” She asked, pouncing curiously. “Isn’t he a British actor?” James flushed.

“He’s weird, okay?” He said defensively, “He… he freaks me out.” He was clearly annoyed by her subsequent laughter, but when she leant down (still stood on the bed) to wrap her arms around his neck and offer a kiss, he gladly accepted. After a few long moments, however, he regrettably pulled away, “Gotta get back down to the kitchen.” He said, “I’m on stuffing duty.”

“D’you want me to help?” She offered, and he shook his head apologetically.

“You can try, but Mom’ll probably just make you sit in the lounge; you’re the guest.”

“Not gonna happen.” She said firmly, “I’ve never helped cook a family meal before. Even if it’s dull as hell, I wanna try it once. Plus, it’s unfair to let her do all the work.”

“Hey, what about me?”

“You? You’re her son. I’d have no problems if _you_ were doing all the work.” She said with a grin, and she softened the verbal jibe with a kiss on the cheek. Bucky smiled at her and gave a flourish to the door, following as she walked by it.

He kept forgetting how this was all new to her; the simple things a family did together. But she’d never known that. He’d told his mother that in passing, once, almost by accident. When Winnie had asked what Natasha’s parents were doing if their daughter wasn’t coming home, he’d replied that she didn’t _have_ any parents. Winnie had been almost distraught over that, so in retrospect, it wasn’t too much of a surprise when she directed Natasha to the apron rack, handed her a knife, and set her to chopping vegetables next to Rebecca. Bucky smiled, even as he was wrist-deep in dead bird, because this was just… _nice_. His mom, his little sister, his girlfriend. Three of the four people he loved most in the world, all just… being together. No Petrovitch, no paparazzi, nothing remotely upsetting or gloomy or less than wonderful. It was nice.

* * *

That night, not long after dinner, Bucky fell asleep on the sofa. Becky, equally tired from school, managed to get herself upstairs before falling asleep, mumbling goodnight to the others as she stumbled up the stairs, yawning. Winnie was sitting in her armchair with a mug of hot tea, and Natasha was curled on the sofa, too comfortable to move _just_ yet. She found herself dozing, halfway between sleep and waking, the light of the fire comforting, the heat just right, the popping and cracking of the logs lulling.

“So, dear.” Winnie’s voice was soft as though she didn’t want to disturb the quiet, or her son, who had fallen asleep with his arm around Natasha. He was snoring softly, and she didn’t have the heart to wake him, either. Two years ago, the idea that she would have grown so familiar to his weight against her would have been absurd. Now, she couldn't imagine her life without him by her side. Not just the physical closeness, but the emotional closeness, it had scared her, at first, but she trusted James, and loved him more than anything (well, with the possible exceptions of Clint's kids, but in her defence they _were_ adorable). “You and Jimmy have been an item for over a year now, isn’t that right?”

“Almost a year and a half.” Natasha agreed, her voice slow and sleepy. James was a comfortable weight against her, and she could feel her eyelids drooping.

“Do you think there’ll be wedding bells?” Winnie then asked. Before Natasha could do much more than open her eyes fully, she added, “Not that I’m pressuring you, dear. I’m just curious. It’s a mother’s duty to look out for her boy, after all.”

“No, no, I know.” Natasha replied, “I just… I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well,” Winnie’s face was lined in gold by the firelight, and her smile was kind. She looked older from this angle, and very tired. Natasha supposed that was the strain of raising two children practically single-handedly. Becky was nineteen, and her father – her and James’ father – had died when she was two. The girl didn't even have any memories of him. “Jimmy’s never brought a girl home before. Not since high-school. I’d be quite honoured for you to be the mother of my grandchild.”

Suddenly, Natasha wasn’t so sleepy anymore, and the warmth of the fire was scorching and oppressive. She felt uncomfortable and out of place. “Oh.” Her voice was falsely sweet, and tasted sickly in her mouth. “Thank you, Winnie.” She looked down at her mug of tea. James had given it to her before sitting down beside her, the great (wonderful, amazing, too-good-for-her) lump he was. It was just how she liked it; creamy with two sugars. She took a sip to fill the silence.

It tasted like ashes in her mouth.


	21. Claret Christmas (Echoes In My Head)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Happy Holidays, everyone! (Again!!) Sadly, no celebrity news this week, as it seems out favourite stars are all hunkering down in secluded bunkers to spend time with their loved ones, aww! (But still, boring!) According to an inside source, the same source, we are pleased to report, as our _fantastic_ photo of our favourite It-boys' apartment, said it-boys, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, will be heading up to Brooklyn to visit their families. And the Starlet Scarlet? She is an enigma (maybe she's cosying up in a secluded bunker with that _man_ of hers. If anyone has any details as to who he is, we'd love to know!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a very short chapter... and that is why you get TWO!! But because there was a very natural break here, sorry!

Natasha’s Christmas was bittersweet. She now realised where James’ Yuletide-explosion take on the holiday had come from; his mother and sister were even worse, and she found herself getting swept up in the holiday spirit. She woke up, lying beside James in his bed (it had taken a great deal of effort to wake him up and coax him into climbing the stairs), and he’d had this simple _joy_ to him, sparkling in his eyes. He’d rolled them over and kissed her hard, and everything about him was lolloping and light and free-spirited, and it was infectious; she couldn’t help but laugh as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

“Merry Christmas, Natalia.” He laughed,

“ _S Rozhdestvom_ , James.” She replied with a grin, and pulled him down to kiss her. It was a brief moment of pure perfection. Fluffy and light-hearted and almost dizzying. But even so, Winnie words echoed in her head.

 _I’d be quite honoured for you to be the mother of my grandchild_.

Those words plagued her on-and-off for the next two days, through the Christmas festivities, the dinner they’d all helped prepare the previous night. She had been high on the goodwill and the joy and all the Christmas stuff she had once (and still kind of) snorted at, but at the back of her mind, it niggled persistently.

It echoed in her head when they came downstairs to see Winnie and Becky laying out presents, waiting patiently for everyone to be awake. Becky commented offhandedly that she would have barged in and begun jumping on Bucky’s bed if not for Natasha being there. She’d managed a laugh in reply, but little else.

It echoed in her head when they opened their gifts; Winnie exclaiming fondly at the new tapestry patterns from her daughter, and the new winter jacket that _surely it was an absolute fortune, Jimmy_ , but _don’t worry, Mom, I can afford it, and you deserve it_. Becky, sitting between her mother and brother, grinned excitedly at her new state-of-the-art camera lens – _you got it for my exact camera! How did you even know what model I had?_ – and the latest rendition of her favourite photo-editing software. Bucky grinned stupidly large at the hand-knitted scarf that Winnie had made, as well as Becky’s college-budget-breaking canvas print of a photo she’d taken earlier that year; a gorgeous scene of the New York skyline, silhouetted against summer twilight; _this’ll look great above the bed, huh, Nat?_ He’d said, and she’d nodded enthusiastically, but distractedly. She herself had also gotten a scarf; bright scarlet, with a cursive _N_ at the end, and, from James, a ruby pendant that she’d had no idea he’d remembered her saying _oh, it’s so beautiful, but it’s so obscenely expensive, I could never buy it for myself…_

It echoed in her head when she called Clint and Laura, speaking with Cooper and Lila and Nathaniel in turn, wishing them all Merry Christmas-es and hoping they enjoyed their presents and _no, I haven’t opened mine yet, sweetie, but when I do, I’ll call you_ and _oh, shush, Laura, I saw that bracelet and I thought of you. Don’t you dare worry about money, just enjoy your Christmas._

It echoed in her head when James called Steve and Anthony, and she had a word in passing with them both, _how’s Stark treating you? Oh, good. And your mother? Give her my best_ , wishing them all happy Christmas, too, and commemorating Jarvis on his control of Anthony.

It echoed in her head at Christmas dinner, when they sat around the table and laughed and were like a family. A small family of four, but a family nonetheless. _And a family that won’t get any bigger_. She thought, as she choked down another mouthful of wine in a vain attempt to shush the voices.

* * *

_I should have told him earlier_ , Natasha thought to herself on the train back home, so engrossed in her turmoil that she didn’t even register her itchy wig for once. James had gotten sick of his scruff only a few hours after they’d arrived at his house (something about eating, she had been too busy chatting with Becky) and so had shaved it – before they’d even eaten Christmas Eve dinner. Thus, his jaw was relatively smooth on the top of her head as he dozed lightly, his arms tightly around her. He’d become very prone to being as near to her as possible over the past few days – though it probably had something to do with the fact that they hadn’t done anymore more than kiss for four days. It had been mostly due to the fact that they both, one-hundred-percent, point-blank, _refused_ to do anything… _noisy_ with James’ own mother and sister within potential earshot. That would be beyond humiliating for both of them (and hardly the lasting impression she’d want to leave following her first time meeting them – or any time, for that matter), so, naturally, they had slept very PG13, just hugging and talking lazily until they drifted off.

Those dozing conversations, however, had done nothing to ease her concern and guilt. She had promised herself that she would address the issue, and soon. It was always best to address things head on, that way you avoided ugly argument along the lines of _you lied to me_ and _I didn’t lie, I omitted_ and so on. That had been more or less the groundwork for their largest argument a few months ago, given that she had sort-of-lied-by-omission about having to kiss her co-star.

Luckily that was all water under the bridge, but now she had a whole _other_ bridge to cross. Yay.

The problem was, she just didn’t know how to _start_. How did she tell someone she loved – she loved _so much_ – that she wasn’t having kids? She’d even heard James _talk_ about it with her. _One day_ , he’d said, _eventually, I think I’d like kids. Someone who’ll drive Steve mad, make Mom and Becks coo like toddlers. I like kids. I’d like one of my own_. How did she tell him that she wasn’t going to give him that? That she’d _never_ give him that? That she just _couldn’t?_

She felt ill. With guilt and shame and disgust because she was being a coward, and she should have told him the _moment_ he’d kissed her. She’d been meaning to tell him, really… But it was so… well, she didn’t really know what it was. She wasn’t one of those old-timey women who thought a woman who didn’t have kids wasn’t a woman at all. But… It was a badge of shame, for her. A reminder of all she had been through; a permanent smack in the face that _she wasn’t normal._ She’d never been a good little girl, never been a regular kid, with a family, or Christmas. That was all James had known; all he had known as a child and as an adult, and he wanted to continue it with a child of his own.

But he wasn’t going to get that with her.

That was why she was scared. That he’d leave her. That he would find no use in her; this relationship wasn’t _going_ anywhere, so he would leave to find someone who _would_ give him what he wanted. A wife, with a white-picket-fence and tiny James running around. And she would fade away into the past, like an old book no one read anymore; whose story didn’t interest anyone. She couldn’t give him what he’d wanted – on some level or another – his whole life. She just _couldn’t_. And if she told him, surely he would hate her for it.

Either way, she couldn’t fool him any longer. She couldn’t lie to him and let the secret fester, then let it burst out when they were old and grey and it was too late. She would have stolen his chance entirely and he would never forgive her for it, and any bond they _might_ , just might, retain if she told him now, would be completely and utterly destroyed.

She turned to her boyfriend. No, lover. _No_ … partner? God, there was no word that sounded right. Her James. Yes. She turned to her James and nudged him awake lightly.

“James.” She said softly, and he stirred. The carriage was near empty, as most people would still be holidaying with their family, and so it was quiet. Most people were reading or on computers, some napping or listening to music, some even just looking out of the window, watching the countryside, edged in white, roll past smoothly. It was a little chilly in the carriage; maybe the heating was on the fritz. But James was a furnace and she would always be warm when he was by her side ( _but what if he wasn’t_ ) so she didn’t mind the cold.

One man, she noticed idly, was sat on his own, and was very much bothered by the cold. He was sat the far end of the carriage, just underneath the heater, curled up under a thick, heavy coat. She shouldn’t stare at him, she knew. She should look at James because she’d woken him and he was probably wondering why. But when she looked at him she’d have to tell him everything, and so she stared, for a very long moment, at the man in the coat.

And then she ripped her gaze away. She looked up at James, looking down at her with mild confusion but interest. And under that, love. He simply looked at her with love. He loved her. She wasn’t sure if she could survive if he left her. She’d grown so used to him by her side; she was addicted to him, and if he left she would die. She had forgotten how to survive without him, and she didn’t _want_ to. It had been lovely, but only now, in hindsight, did she see how lonely she’d been. She couldn’t give that up, give _him_ up, _she just couldn’t._

But that didn’t mean she got to lie to him for the rest of her life. She looked back at him steadily, and memorised the details of his face, as though it would be the last time she saw it ( _maybe it would be. Maybe he’ll be gone at the next station_ ). “James…” She said, and she she heard the tannoy above state that _ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be pulling into Providence Station shortly_ as she gazed up at him. “I… I have to tell you something.” He looked at her, but said nothing, allowing her to speak her piece before saying anything, and she continued to commit him to intense, irrefutable memory. His soft brown eyes, kind and warm as a doe’s, but they could be dangerous and glitter with anger, or dark and heated with desire ( _fierce with rage at you, for lying to him_ ). His lips, oddly full for a man, plush and kissable, so beautiful when they formed her name, so gentle when they worshipped her skin, his breath thawing the ice of her heart and soul ( _she would freeze without him, and she had forgotten how to live in the cold_ ) and so wonderful when the corners quirked up in a smile; either a grin or a half-smirk, both of which forgeous enough to make her weak at the knees. His hair, dark and thick, slightly curling, the perfect length for her to tangle her hands in when they kissed, to find leverage in when he moved inside of her, to card her fingers through when they collapsed atop one another, grinning and sweaty and exhausted and sated ( _never touch him like that again_ ).

And what she couldn’t see. His sense of humour, a corkscrew like her own; they could joke about the darker things and still laugh together; parody utter ridiculousness and roll around on the floor, crying tears of mirth. The way he thought about things, the way he remembered them; how he would recall such odd details ( _he remembered you wore blue on that day. He remembered the necklace you saw_ ), and how she couldn’t count on him to remember to take out the trash, but know the quickest way to all her favourite takeout places, or all her favourite foods, when she was stressed or sad or moody. How he thought she was adorable and gorgeous when wrapped up in an unflattering, woollen jumper and leggings, as she was in a gown designed for the red carpet ( _I don’t want to lose him. I love him_ ).

“James…” She said, and she forced herself to choke out the words. They burned her throat like acid ( _he will hate you_ ), corroding her windpipe ( _you lied to him_ ) and trying to destroy her from the inside out ( _how could you think he would stay with you_ ). “I… I can’t have kids.”

And then the world broke.


	22. Blood Red (Stay With Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Our prayers are with the victims' families.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologise for A) angst, and B) my mangling the English language. 
> 
> Seriously, though, I am super proud of the first bit of this chapter and I would seriously love to know what you guys think - and at the risk of sounding desperate, _please_ comment!

Pain.

All she could feel was pain. Fire and blood and sorrow and fear and terror and rage and heat and agony and fury and death and _pain_. The world was a mess – no, it was broken. Splintered apart at the seams like a smashed mirror, and all the razors sharp pieces had rained down upon her, digging into her skin and cutting her. Bleeding suffering agony sorrow fear terror rage pain. She was falling and the darkness was everywhere, all consuming, and she was blind—was she blind or was it the darkness? The emptiness? It was everything, and she couldn’t tell which way was up— _was_ there an up anymore? _Fallingplummetingtumblingscaredfearterrorsufferingragesorrowpain_. She couldn’t make sense of anything, there was no sense and there was no anything, and then she saw the light. The light in the distance, the only thing beside the darkness and the empty. _Darklostnothinggoneemptyfearterrorragesorrowpain_. There was a light in the distance, and it was soft and kind and it made the hurt go away, the terror and the sorrow dissipated when she went towards it— ** _NO!_** She couldn’t – James? Where was James? She had to find James.

 _Fearterrordreadfrighthorrorpanic._ Where was James? _Wherehowwhatokaywherealivedeadfearterror_. He was solid, and real, and she couldn’t let the fire get to him. She had to find him, to make sure he was okay. The world was broken and the splinters cut her skin, but she had to move, she had to turn away from the light and she had to _find James_. _FindseekloveterrodreadfearagonybleedingsufferingJamesfindokayterrorpain_.

She opened her eyes, and found that the world was grey. Grey and dust and shadows, was any of it real? Was she seeing behind the curtain, all smoke and mirrors? Was she real? _I’m a ballerina_. She thought, _a pretty little doll. I dance and twirl but I am not real. I am a doll_. She giggled, and found that there was sound. _GigglelaughcryshriekscreamyellsobnoyeswhereJamesfindokaypainagonysorrowterrordreadfearpain_. There was a high-pitched ringing – oh, it was being very rude, she could hardly hear anything else, and she was shouting for James but if she could hardly hear herself, how could he? She cried louder and the ringing finally had the good sense to die down.

“ _Ma’am, are you okay?_ ” An angel asked as she tried to move, and found she couldn’t. _Bleedingsufferingcrushedtrappedagonybloodfearpain._ She giggled again, silly angel, she wasn’t fine until she had James. _My James_ she tried to say, _I just need to find my James. Then I will be okay_. She tried to tell him, but the angel wouldn’t listen. _Jamesfindseektrappedokayalivedeadlovefearterrorpain_. She turned back to the angel, perhaps asking him if he could find James, and then she would be fine, and everything would be okay. _I promise_. She said to the angel, _everything will be fine once I find James_.

“ _Ma’am, can you hear me?_ ” The angel asked. It was really being quite rude, she’d already replied to its first question, and it had simply ignored her. “ _Can you hear me, ma’am? I need you to show if you can hear me_.” Natasha rolled her eyes, _of course I can hear you_. She said, _just help me find my James_. She just needed to find James. The world was broken and she needed to find him. She needed to find him now. _FindseekloveJamesokayalivedeadfearterroragonysufferingtrappedpain_.

The angel ignored her again, but it had the good grace to move whatever was trapping her. She tried to move and did, but it hurt, and she cried out. _Bleedingsufferingscreamcryshriekcrushedagonytorturepain_. But it didn’t matter; she had to find James, then she would deal with herself. Maybe the angel would try and heal her.

It seemed the angel had just that thought in mind, because it picked her up, but she didn’t _want_ to be picked up, she needed to find James. _FindlocateseekokayJameslovealivedeadhugkisscryworryterrorfearpain_. She had to find James. _I have to find James!_ She shouted at the angel, starting to grow angry. _Angerfearfurysorrowrageterrorcryshriekdreadpain_. She tried to push the angel away, but it was far stronger than her. _Put me down!_ She yelled, _I have to find James. Everything will be okay if I find James! James! James!_

“ ** _JAMES!_** ”

* * *

When she opened her eyes again, the world was whole. The angel had fixed that, at least. She tried to move her head, and found that it hurt, but wasn’t unbearable. There was something smooth and solid in the palm of her hand, and she slowly craned her head to look down. She was in a white bed that was not her own; too stiff and narrow and plain. She also noticed that the floor was tile; something easy to clean but not particularly nice to look at. All the light was harsh and fluorescent, nothing of the gentle golden-orange she preferred, and she had to squint to see properly; too bright.

The object in her palm had a button, and, out of curiosity, she pressed it. Nothing happened, so she pressed it again. Still nothing, she decided it was broken, and threw it aside. Her arm moved stiffly as she did so, and when she tried to move her other arm, it hurt and she cried out. Turning to look at her other arm, she was perplexed to find it gone. Something white and lumpy was in its place; solid and rough. No, wait, it _was_ her arm. Just covered in something. She decided to ask the angel to remove it if she saw it again. She didn’t, though. Instead entered a different angel; with long, curling dark hair, and neat little glasses. It was a female, and had white wings – no, that was a coat, a labcoat.

“Is everything okay?” The angel asked, and Natasha frowned, and shrugged, only to find it hurt. She tried to ask a question, but her mouth was dry. The angel passed her some water, and she drank gratefully. Then she managed to speak.

“Where am I?” Was the first question, but it opened the floodgates for others, “Who are you? What happened? Why am I here? Is everything okay? Where’s James?” _where’s James?_ She had to find James. _FindseeklocateloveJamesokayalivedeadfearterrorpain_.

The angel looked down at her with a sort of pity. “Ms Romanoff,” She said, “My name is Dr Ross. You were in an accident two days ago – do you remember what happened?” Natasha frowned. The angel – Dr Ross – knew what happened, so why was she playing mind games? She couldn’t remember what happened, and she needed to find out. _Where’s James?_

No, wait… She _did_ know… Something… a trickle of memory, just at the edge of her mind. A memory, a fragment, a sliver of a splinter of mirror, of the world that had broken.

_Oh no._

“The train.” Natasha said haltingly, “The train, Providence Station.” Suddenly everything came back. That hadn’t been an angel, and Dr Ross wasn’t an angel. She looked at the silvery tag on Dr Ross’s shirt. She was in a hospital. Dr Ross was her assigned physician. At her words, Dr Ross nodded.

“The train.” She agreed sadly, “One of the passengers – the police have yet to identify who it was – well, one of the passengers was a bomber, charged with taking out Providence Station. You were lucky to survive, Ms Romanoff. Twelve people died, and sixteen more were placed in intensive care. The young man in the seat next to you, he was one of them.

“James?” She said in a small voice, terror gripping her. _FeardreadfrightalivedeadokayJamesterrorpain._ Dr Ross’ eyebrows raised,

“His names is James?” She asked, “You would be able to identify him, then? You knew him? He’s currently one of our John Does.” Not that it mattered here and now, but Natasha wondered idly about the privacy of her and James’ relationship. Not that it mattered, their lives had been endangered – and James was still in the ICU. So she nodded, but instead demanded that she go see him.

Dr Ross was reluctant, “Ms Romanoff, I don’t know if you should be walking—”

“Then get me a wheelchair.” Natasha said briskly, “This is a hospital, there should be one lying around. Either way, I want to go to the ICU. I want to see James. _Now_.”

Clearly unsure of whether she should give a potentially-hysterical patient what she was throwing a tantrum about, or to remain firm about her concern, Dr Ross left and returned after a moment with a wheelchair. Seeing she’d won this battle, Natasha said nothing about being helped from her bed into the chair, instead asking, “How did you know my name?” even though it was probably a stupid question; she was famous, after all.

Dr Ross gave a small smile, “Well, you have a pretty recognisable face, even bruised.” She said mildly, “Also, I believe you recently starred in a film with my boyfriend. Does the name Bruce Banner ring a bell?”

Natasha blushed, somewhere between embarrassment and shame. She didn’t think about Bruce Banner all that much, given the rough-patch she and James had been going through concerning him (she was just glad Bruce hadn’t caught on to her and James’ relationship, or thought she’d been mad at him directly, and not just been in a bad mood with everyone). But she merely nodded as Dr Ross continued to help her into the chair, though she drew the line at being wheeled, and simply asking for directions to the ICU. Dr Ross pointed out that she had one arm in a cast, and that unless she wanted to go around in circles forever, she would be wheeled. So, Natasha grumpily agreed to wait until a nurse arrived, and then Dr Ross turned back to checking Natasha’s chart.

Whilst on her way to the intensive care unit, Natasha caught sight of herself in a window, and almost cried out. There was a large cut running from roughly an inch above her right eye, to just next to her right earlobe, heavily stitched. The other side of her face was bruises badly; she had a black eye and a smear of purple all down her left cheek and temple. Her bottom lip had been split and still had an angry red line running through it. Vaguely, she wondered how badly the cut would scar. It was probably her acting career over. She turned to the nurse pushing her chair and pointed to her own forehead.

“Will this scar?” She asked him. He paused,

“Probably a little.” He admitted, “But if you care for it properly why it heals, a little make-up will eventually hide it completely.” She was more relieved than she should have been at that, but she _had_ been a performer all her life, and though she was a great director, she still didn’t want to have to close the door on the option of acting herself. But she pushed all these thoughts aside when they arrived in the ICU, and she saw James lying on a bed. She almost cried.

He looked so small and frail; so tiny and helpless. The bedsheets were drawn up to his chin, as though they were worried he would be cold if not. Maybe he would be – she didn’t know anything about medical procedure. One of his arms was free from the covers, though, so they could keep an eye on the drip stuck in his arm. The nurse told her without prompt that it was morphine; enough to knock him out and keep him in as much comfort as possible. She half wanted them to dial it down and wake him up, but was worried about how much pain he would be in, so said nothing. The nurse parked her by the side of James’ bed and left the room, telling her to press the button if something went wrong.

She sat there, for a long while, looking at him, Just before the bomb had gone off, she’d been memorising the details of his face. If he had died… _no, I can’t think like that_. She thought of Winnie and Rebecca. They knew what train they’d been on, but if James had been admitted as a John Doe, they wouldn’t know if he was alive. They’d probably know _she_ was alive, merely because she was well-known, and people were fickle and shallow in only caring about celebrities. She’d probably have to answer some police questions, and doubtless paparazzi would be stalking her even more than usual. She wished she was a little more conspicuous; that her hair wasn’t so noticeable, and that she, like James, could be mistaken and overlooked simply because people didn’t expect to see her.

But none of that mattered now, and she shook herself. James was fighting for his life, how could she think about such trivial _shit?_ It didn’t matter, _none of it_ mattered. Not now. She looked down at him so tiny, so helpless. The wonderful, beautiful, incredibly man she’d fallen in love with, and this might be the last time she saw him.

And her last words to him would be shattering his dreams. _I can’t have kids_. Did he register that? If he woke up, would he remember those words? And if he did, would he want her at his bedside? She didn’t have an answer. She didn’t want one, either. So, instead, she just sat by, and memorised the details of his face, not daring to touch him, or to speak to him. She had lost that right.

* * *

Natasha was told by Dr Ross that she would not be discharged for several days, and Bucky would not be released until he woke up and was cleared (which, she approximated, would be about a week after said waking up). However, after two days, he was finally completely stabilised and moved to a smaller, private room, outside of the ICU. Natasha was permitted to visit him there as often as she liked, as she, too, was also a patient. After three days, she could walk around with a wheelie drip dragging behind her, and her bruises were starting to fade. She researched how to minimalize scarring and applied the necessary medicines almost religiously to the cut, all the while dreading what James would say when he woke up.

Winnie and Becky were the first to visit. Three days after Natasha had woken up, as she had been deemed in a solid enough mental state to legally identify James, and she did. The women raced up to the hospital and cried over James, taking his hand and muttering that they loved him and that they would do everything they could.

Hand. Not hands.

He’d lost more than his consciousness in the explosion. Another thing Natasha dreaded when he woke. How he would react to having lost his entire left arm. When Steve and Anthony had visited the next day (mainly Steve, but Anthony was his boyfriend and he was committed and he liked Bucky, too), Anthony had been on the phone with Scott and speaking with Dr Ross about designing a prosthetic. How soon could it be tested? Finished? Used? She recognised Stark’s behaviour; tackling the problem logically, apathetically, because emotions were too rough to deal with and made you feel ill and scared and furious and anguished. Steve’s mother, Sarah, had cried almost as much as Winnie.

Laura had cried, too. On the news, when she’d heard that Natasha and James had been caught in the midst of a terrorist attack. Clint and her had visited Natasha on the fourth day, the afternoon, only an hour after Steve and Anthony had left. Clint had been relieved to see Natasha was fine (or, at least, that she would heal – physically, anyway), but clearly worried for the trauma she had endured, both directly and because Bucky was still unconscious ( _as soon as he wakes he will leave_ ). She had asked them not to bring the kids, for fear of scaring them, and they had agreed, but Laura had said that they were all worried. Natasha had replied _tell them I’ll be okay, and that I’ll visit as soon as I can_. Laura had also given her the present from Lila (and Cooper and Nathaniel, technically, but mostly Lila) suggesting she open it to take her mind off fo things. Natasha had done so after Clint and Laura had left.

It had been a macaroni picture frame, with a photo of Natasha and James surrounded by the kids, all grinning into the camera ( _the life you can never have_ ). Natasha held it in her one good hand and stared at it for a long time.

She cried so much it hurt.

* * *

“ _Officials at the scene have just confirmed the identity of the bomber_ —” A picture flashed up on the screen; a young man’s mugshot. He was tall, dark-haired, not bad-looking. She’d expected him to look evil or inherently bad. But he looked like a normal guy. Barely more than a kid. “— _as one Grant Ward, a known member of the hate-group_ Clairvoyant _, led by John Garret. It is unknown if Providence Station was the official target or if the bomb malfunctioned, as Ward’s ticket noted him as travelling to the end of the line at Sandbox Station. Thirteen are confirmed to have died as a result of this attack, and twenty-three more injured. Among the injured was actress and director, Natasha “Scarlet Starlet” Ro_ —” She switched the television off irritably, cutting off the reporter and removing the picture of her splashed across the screen; a phot from the premiere of _The Pits: Revolution_. She didn’t want to hear about herself. Thirteen people had _died_. Twelve in that hellfire, one after reaching hospital, fighting for his life in the ICU like James. Only he hadn’t won.

She sat there in silence, staring at the black screen impassively. Lila’s photo frame stood on her nightstand. They all looked so happy there. She wished she could go back, to before everything had gone horribly wrong. She wished she’d told James earlier. She wished she’d insisted they stay an extra day. She wished she’d noticed Grant ward acting odd ( _you saw him in his coat and you said nothing. It’s your fault_ ). She wished she’d said something ( _your fault_ ).  She wished, she wished, she _wished_ —

“Ms Romanoff?”

Natasha was jogged rom her thoughts by the calm voice of Dr Ross. She had become a familiar and welcome face over the past week, and Natasha was thus not too irritated to see her standing at the doorway of the hospital room. Natasha sat up in her bed, interest (and concern) piqued, “Yes?”

Dr Ross smiled at her, “I thought you might want to know that Mr Barnes has woken up.” She said, and Natasha’s heart leapt, right before it plummeted. _The crash. His arm. My words_. Elation turned to cold dread. Dr Ross seemed not to notice.

“We need to allow him a grace period,” She was saying, “Tell him about his arm and make sure he’s adjusting properly. But after that, you’ll be able to go and see him…” Dr Ross’ voice seemed to trail off as Natasha sank deeper into her thoughts. Dr Ross was a pragmatic woman, not unlike Peggy (one of the many visitors Natasha had seen over the past six days), and dealt with the problem swiftly and phlegmatically. Unlike Stark, she didn’t avoid the emotion, but rather dealt with it calmly, analysed the fact that, for example, Natasha and Bucky would be traumatised. But that wasn’t what Natasha was thinking about.

_He’s awake._

_What does he remember?_

_Will he hate me?_

_Does he even want to **see** me?_

_His arm… how will he take losing his arm?_

Thoughts swirled around her mind like a hurricane, and she began to get nervous. She refused to say anything, though. Her emotional trauma in the aftermath of James and the bomb and his arm and not having kids had built up, and at the first sign of trouble they sedated her to try and keep her clam and healthy. But sedation dulled her senses, and she _refused_ to dull her senses.

“I want to see him.” She said, cutting across Dr Ross, who was at that point explaining how the prosthetic Anthony and Scott ( _damn, they work fast_ ) had designed would be tested. If she’d been listening, she might have expressed some amusement in the fact that it was going to be modelled after Caden’s prosthetic. Irony, or some crap that didn’t matter right now. “I want to see him.” She repeated, “As soon as possible, I want to see James.”

She wanted to get this over with, let him begin to heal emotionally. She needed to know he would be okay, even if it meant she never got to see him or even speak to him again. She’d lose her _Pits_ deal, but who cared? If she lost James, she lost everything, it was insignificant.

 _I don’t deserve to live in this Schrodinger reality_ , she thought, _I need to find out if he hates me or not. I don’t deserve the chance that he might still love me if he doesn’t._ She had to do what was best for James, not for herself. He came first. He _always_ came first. She loved him, and he was all that mattered ( _I will freeze without him, and I have forgotten how to live in the cold_ ).

* * *

Four hours later, she was walking into James’ hospital room.

She’d caught sight of herself in a window again. Her bruises were fading, and the cut was healing quickly, even if it looked a mess. She’d washed it carefully to make it seem less significant, because she didn’t deserve his concern. Not after lying to him for almost a year and a half. He looked better, too, when she approached him. His own bruises were fading, and the doctors had given him some sort of patch to stick over the stump of his left shoulder. He had lost ( _exactly_ ) 78% of his arm, so there was still a stump he could sort-of move, that would later form the anchor for the prosthetic Stark and Scott had designed. The colour in his cheeks had returned a little, and someone had washed his hair, and so it wasn’t greasy anymore. He looked at her almost blankly when she came into the room.

“Hi.” She said softly, standing hallway between the foot of his bed and the doorway. She didn’t go the chair; she didn’t have the right to sit. Her voice sounded not her own, but he didn’t seem to care, and she kept her eyes fixed solidly on his. Was this awkward? She didn’t know if it was awkward.

“Hey.” He replied, equally softly, then, “You alright?” His eyes glanced at the cast on her arm. Despite everything, she smiled a little.

“I’ll be okay.” She replied, glancing at his arm – or lack thereof. He followed her gaze and smiled, then turned back to her, waving his stump in a sort of hello. She smiled, drinking in the sight of him whilst she still could.

“D’you want to sit?” He then asked her, “Pull up a chair, you probably shouldn’t be walking in your condition.”

She raised her eyebrows, “In my condition? You were practically comatose for a week. I’m fine.”

He dismissed this with a wave of his stump, which made her laugh a little. Judging from his smile, he’d been aiming for that, “C’mon,” He said, “Just sit. I’ll be eye-level with you, then.” He added. Obligingly, she pulled over a chair, and sat down on the left side of his bed. He reached out his right hand and took one of her hands, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of her hand soothingly. She wanted to melt; relieved he was alright, despite everything.

“How are you… taking it?” She said mildly. He shrugged, and look at the stump again.

“It was… a bit of a surprise.” He admitted, “But it could’ve been worse. I suppose in an ideal world, I would’ve lost a leg rather than my arm, but then again, in an ideal world—”

“We wouldn’t have been in a terrorist attack.” She finished, with a small smile, despite her words. He smiled up at her,

“Exactly.” He said softly. His hand came away to cup her cheek, and he frowned slightly, clearly concerned by the bruises. “Are you alright?” He asked again, and before she could insist, _yes, I’m fine_ , he added, “I mean about the attack. I heard you were conscious when they found you. Are you alright?”

Fleeting memories. Being crushed by debris. Everything throbbing. Fear and pain and terror and sorrow. Incoherent thoughts and hallucinations. It all seemed surreal. Was that better or worse? She didn’t feel in any way different or impacted, but didn’t these things take time to manifest? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t a psychologist, either.

“I’ll be okay.” She said again, “What about you? You were in ICU for days, I wasn’t sure if—”

“If I’d make it?” He asked, cutting across her, and she nodded, almost shyly. He offered a warm smile, “You don’t ever have to worry about that, Nat.” He promised her, “I’ll always come back to you. After all, where else am I gonna find a girl who puts up with all my crap?”

“That is a good point,” She admitted with a small laugh, and he beamed, relieved that she was some modicum of okay. For a moment, they were both happy, despite everything.

And then _everything_ returned, and she remembered what she’d said to him. At once she felt out of place again; awkward and cruel. James seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere of the room, but before he could ask what was wrong, she spoke.

“Do… do you remember? What happened before?” She asked him, and in her nervousness she began to babble, “The-the cops. They’re still investigating everything – I mean, they found the bomber, some guy named Grant Ward, he’s part of a hate group or something – but they want a statement from all the passengers…”

“Natalia.” James said softly, and she stopped talking. For that, she was grateful. But at the same time, it meant he could talk ( _how will be even forgive you?_ ), “I remember what you said.”

Natasha stiffened, frozen and silent. She didn’t know what to say. She stared at James, and he continued, “I remember what you said, and I don’t care. I love you. I want to spend my life _with you_. It’s not your fault that you can’t have kids, and it doesn’t mean I love you any less. Besides, Cooper, Lila and Nathan are practically your kids, anyway.” She had to smile a little at that.

With visible effort, Bucky pushed himself to a sitting position, leaning heavily on the pillows. He took her hand again, and smiled, “I love you.” He said to her, “I loved you before I knew that you can’t have kids, and I love you after you told me. I don’t care, I really don’t. I’m not with you to have a kid, I’m with you because I love _you_.” He leant forwards as much as she could and realised he couldn’t reach. He paused somewhat sheepishly and cleared his throat, “Uh… could… could you lean over a little, please?” He asked, and she did so, smiling. He kissed her cheek; the bruised one, gently, ghosting over the still tender flesh. She turned and kissed him back, on the lips, just as softly.

“I don’t deserve you.” She murmured to him, “I really don’t deserve you.”

“Well, tough,” He replied, “You’ve got me, anyway.” And he kissed her, a little harder this time, and for the first time in two weeks, Natasha allowed herself to believe that everything was going to be okay.


	23. Cherries and Champagne (Happy New Year)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Happy New Year, everyone! The holiday spirit is beginning to die down with the impending return to work and school, and eyes turn towards the three-year anniversary of our favourite It-Boys' claim-to-fame film. That's right, folks! Three years ago, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes found their notoriety in the hit wartime-thriller _The Howling Commandos_ , though production started closer to _five_ years ago! Whoa! It's a wonder this pair of star-studded studs didn't earn an Oscar for their stunning performances, but maybe this year's edition of _The Pits_ saga will change things. We can only speculate!

Following the alleviation of her fears, thanks to her oh-so wonderful boyfriend (nope, that still sounded weird and juvenile), Natasha’s concern then turned entirely to his loss of limb and impending trauma. Dr Ross was kind enough to allow them a paired hospital room, so they could remain close and (doctor-patient confidentiality notwithstanding) had kept her lips tightly shut about that fact that she now knew who Natasha Romanoff’s _Mystery Man_ was, much to the relief of both actors. Of course, the fact that Natasha was now 24/7 within reach of James only really meant she was 24/7 fussing over him.

“Do you need anything?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Do you need help?”

Bucky, in his continued efforts to comfort her, managed to remain pretty mellow about the whole thing, but couldn’t help when some irritation leaked out and he snapped at her (which, given what he’d been through, was more than understandable). Natasha, being herself, understood, which only continued (though marginally lessened) the cycle of her hen-like worrying. She was constantly worried about his being in pain (not much, thanks to the morphine drip stuck in his right arm) or traumatised (none as of yet, but he heard these things took a while to process) or generally anything other than okay – but to be fair, given that they were in a hospital, that last one was pretty valid. Then he would snap at her, and she would worry about worrying him. Then he would exhibit pain – even something as small as a wince was enough to set her off – and she would fuss again.

However, about four days after Bucky had first woken up, and discovered he was about ten pounds lighter, it was announced that he could be discharged and return home. Perpetually optimistic (that came with having Steve for a best friend), he was only focusing on the fact that it had only been an arm, that there were no complications, and that he had two of the best engineers working on the prosthetic replacement.

“Maybe I should go in for the Paralympics.” He suggested that morning as he ate his breakfast (with considerably more vigour than normally presented when having to eat hospital food, but then, he was going home and would soon be back to eating food fit for human consumption) and Dr Ross gave him cursory examinations; checking he was healing properly and so on. “I’m pretty quick, maybe I could train for the running or something.”

“I think you have to be a _leg_ amputee to go in for the running.” Natasha mused absently, reading that morning’s newspaper. Unfortunately for her (well, not that much in the grand scheme of things, as she still _had_ both arms) it had been her dominant (right) arm that broke. James, thankfully, was right handed, so was still able to write and eat competently. As for Natasha, _well_. Currently, her handwriting, eating and basically anything that required any dexterity was appalling, though she had said not a word on the subject, given that James was in a markedly worse situation.

“Can you move your arm?” Dr Ross asked, and Bucky did so, wiggling the stump at her. She smiled, “Okay, then, Mr Barnes. I’d say you’re ready to go. Come up to the front desk when you’re ready, and you can be discharged.”

Bucky grinned at her, “Awesome. Thanks, Doctor.”

“Thank you.” Natasha added as Dr Ross left the room. She turned the page of her newspaper awkwardly as she then added, “As for the Paralympic thing, you need a special diet and training and whatnot, you’d never be able to get up at 4am every day.”

Bucky shrugged, “I guess.” He admitted. There was a short pause, then “I’ll just watch the next Paralympics.” Natasha gave a small laugh, and held in her head an image of the pair of them snuggled up on a sofa, normal and safe, watching sports whilst they themselves ate takeout and drank beer. The picture was amusing, and heartening.

As his girlfriend daydreamt, Bucky pushed his food tray away and swung himself out of the bed, wobbling slightly as he stood. There had been no damage to his ears or balancing capabilities, but he was still getting used to the permanent imbalance of his upper body, and had been told by his physiotherapist to mind how he walked, because he’d be incredibly prone to leaning to one side. If he did this too much that it became habit, by the time he got his prosthetic, it would weigh him down too much on the other side and give him a perpetual lolloping waddle as he walked. Natasha had then suggested that it would be more like a sexy strut, but either way, the physiotherapist had insisted to be careful (he’d been a rather severe man, and hadn’t seemed to appreciate Natasha’s humour like Bucky had).

Still, he had almost perfected how to get a shirt on with one arm, though still had trouble with pulling up his jeans and tying laces. Luckily, he’d have Steve or Natasha to help him until he got the hang of things, and he gave a plaintive whine as he struggled to pull up his pants. Natasha, recognising the pitiful (and only half meant in comedy) sound, put down the newspaper and got to her feet, proceeding to hold up his jeans with her one good hand, whilst James buttoned them with his own.

“What has four legs, two arms, and no competence?” She asked in a mutter. Bucky snorted.

Due to Natasha’s own injuries, she had been kept behind a while longer than she’d initially been told. Apparently the break in her arm had been a compound fracture (meaning the bone had been poking out of the skin; in retrospect she was glad she’d been too delusional to register that) which was complex enough, but her moving after the crash to try and find James had caused even more bone displacement, and so she’d had to be held an extra few days to make sure it was properly set. Technically, she’d been free to discharge herself the previous day, but had decided that one more night in hospital was worth it, given James wasn’t going to be discharged until the following afternoon (and after everything, she wasn’t letting him out of her damn _sight_ ).

Now fully dressed, Bucky looked at himself in the mirror. He was wearing a t-shirt, and the bandaged stump of his arm was just visible through the sleeve. Like most loss-of-limb, the break had been pretty clean, and the end of the bone had been level with the end of the muscle and flesh. As such, in his surgery after the crash, the doctors had had to remove a little more of the bone so the tissue could be sewn shut over it. When it healed, it would be a very simple and round-ended, well, stump. Currently, it was in bandages, and he waved at Natasha in the mirror, and she laughed, waving back. She was so relieved at how well he was taking this; and that they were both, for the most part, okay. She didn’t want to contemplate losing him – not in the way that she’d been dreading, but in the way she didn’t even dare think about.

Thirteen people. He could have been any one of them.

“They said they moved my nerves.” He then said to her, jogging her from her thoughts. Natasha turned to him,

“What?”

“My nerves.” He said, “They played around with them or something, move them so I can control the prosthetic hand like a normal one.” He shrugged, “I didn’t understand most of it, but Stark said it’ll be _totally cool_.”

“Really? Stark said that?”

“I might’ve cleaned up the language, but the sentiment remains.” He shrugged again. He seemed to be quite fond of the action now, probably because it seemed a lot bigger of a motion when one of your arms was just a stump. He turned away from the mirror to look at her and grinned, “Either way, it sounds cool.”

She grinned back, “The miracles of modern technology.” She agreed, “Now let’s go get your discharge papers.”

* * *

One of the many jobs Jaime had acquired over her sort-of friendship with the two actors was taxi driver when needs required discretion, and, sure enough, she was unmistakable besides a rental car when they exited the hospital in a blond wig and the “hipster outfit” respectfully. The paparazzi were still swarming around the outside of the hospital, but paid no attention to the pair of seemingly-unknown ex-patients, and let them though easily.

“Hey, guys.” Jaime smiled, but didn’t grin, when they approached her. Her eyes immediately went to their damaged arms and grimaced. “Whoa, yikes. No, wait, that was rude. Let me get your bags. Wait, is that insensitive? Do you—”

“It’s fine, J.” Bucky assured her calmly, passing her their rucksack. Most of their luggage had been, well destroyed in the explosion, but the bag contained what they’d been wearing when they’d been found (that they weren’t wearing now), including their wallets, Natasha’s jewellery and their scarves (which they’d been wearing due to the chilly train carriage which had not stayed that way). As such, that little rucksack was all they had from their trip. Bucky’s laptop had also been utterly destroyed ( _and you said it was paranoid for me to back up my files before every trip)_ as well as the canvas Rebecca had given them (they'd apologised for effectively wasting her money, but she'd refused to hear any of it, just glad her brother and potential-sister-in-law were alive). 

"Well…” She said in a more serious voice than normal, “I’m really glad that you’re both okay. When I saw the news…” She trailed off, “I’m glad you’re okay.” She repeated, then gave a somewhat awkward nod and turned to put the rucksack in the trunk and open the car door. Natasha and Bucky both (again, somewhat awkwardly) got in the backseat and put on their seatbelts, and allowed themselves to relax as Jaime drove them home, the hospital slowly melting out of sight.

“On the bright side, you won’t need CGI for the Caden arm anymore.” Bucky said as she rested her head against him. It was fluke that she’d damaged her right arm, and he’d lost his left, but it meant they could lean on one another without fear of hurting each other, and it was comfortable and comforting to rest her head on his shoulder, and let her eyes slip closed. She’d slept fine in the hospital after he’d woken up, but she was so tired, so she allowed herself to chuckle lightly at his joke as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

“Nat.” She was woken by someone prodding her, “ _Na-at_. Wake _uh-up_.” The prodding was joined by a singsong voice, and she woke reluctantly to find that she and James were home, outside her apartment, and he was grinning down at her. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” He quipped, “Sorry to wake you, but I can’t exactly carry you up to the apartment.”

“Not exactly.” She gave a sleepy smile and stretched, then winced, remembering her own arm was broken, and wishing she’d smuggled out her morphine drip. “ _Damn_.” She swore, clutching at her upper right arm, “I hope you got plenty of those Vicodin pills.”

“One bottle for each of us.” He replied, as she reached across the awkwardly pull the door release and nudge it open with her foot, “And don’t go getting ideas, Dr House, we’ve been given strict instructions not to overdo it. Dr Ross even gave us a schedule.” He patted his front pocket before outstretching his hand for her to take, half-pulling and half-helping him out of the car.

Jaime was already out, and had their rucksack over her shoulder. She slid it off and offered it to Bucky, “You okay to get in and everything?” She asked, and he nodded, so she passed him the bag, and he shimmied it up onto his good shoulder. She had had a shorter holiday then them (though a considerably less traumatising one) and had been back on door-duty after a three-day holiday (for which she knew she’d been lucky; other employees had not been so fortunate, though most had gotten Christmas off).

“You have a good Christmas?” Bucky then asked, realising he’d forgotten to ask earlier. She smiled and gave a shrug,

“It was nice.” She said, looking a little sheepish and clearly being mindful of her words, considering how Bucky’s own Christmas had gone. “Saw my parents, had a big dinner, same old.”

He smiled, “Glad to hear. How’d the picture go down?”

Jaime grinned, “It’s on every magazine cover, so I think it worked.”

“Awesome.” She replied as she pulled open the car door and drove off to return the car to the rental. The street was quiet in the early afternoon of a cold January morning, everyone at work or huddled up in their homes, and the sound of the car’s engine seemed to echo between the tall buildings. Bucky then turned back to Natasha, who was standing by the steps, looking up at the building almost in awe. It seemed, for some reason, a very sad picture in the silence. As though the calm made it sorrowful. He walked up to stand beside her and intertwined his fingers with hers. She melted into his side, leaning against him a little.

“A lot’s changed since we last were in here.” She murmured, and she was right. But not just in the immediately apparent and physical sense. Not just the scars they bore and the injuries they’d endured. The insecurity of sterility, the terror of loss, the disgust of selfishness, the utter relief of _you’re okay_. They were changed people, and so they looked upon this building, their home, almost as though it were foreign.

“We changed, too.” He murmured back to her, “But not entirely. We’re still the same, in the end. I still love you, you still love me. We have our friends and our family.” He turned his head and kissed the top of her head; the blonde wig. “We’re just a _little_ different.”

“Just a little.” She agreed, and they ascended the steps to their home. After several days in hospital scrubs, they were both relived to be in warm, clean, soft _clothes_ , and they spent the rest of the day huddled up on the sofa, to emotionally exhausted and physically drained to do anything but doze in each other’s company. Hours passed lethargically; time seemed insignificant in this twilight land between sleep and waking, all that mattered was that they had each other, and that they were okay. Maybe not fully, and maybe not for a while yet, but eventually, they’d get back to normal, and they were happy that they still had each other to get through it with.

* * *

“Hey.”

James’ voice was soft, late that evening. The clock read eight-thirty, and it was pitch black outside, but Natasha felt as though she’d been lying, curled up against James’ side for only a few moments, and at the same time for days, weeks, _years_. If she looked in the mirror she would be old and grey, and so would he, and they would have watched the world go by and not even noticed.

But no, it was eight-thirty. They’d been like this only a few hours. For a while. It had felt as though they were three weeks in their past (probably aided by the fact that they were both half-tripping on painkillers), with their Christmas decorations still up, glittering and undisturbed (the soft glow of the fairy-lights added to the almost ethereal aesthetic of the room), and a handful of presents from their friends clustered at the base of their tree, which they’d get round to opening probably some time tomorrow.

Natasha turned her head to look up at him, “Yeah?” She spoke softly, so as to not disturb the gentle quiet.

“We were both in hospital at New Year’s.” He said, “We didn’t celebrate.”

“Well,” She replied with a small shrug, “You were comatose, and I was traumatised. It didn’t seem like a very important thing. Or the right time.”

Bucky nodded, “True.” He admitted, “But we’re both okay, now. We should have some champagne, properly toast the new year or something.”

She gave a small laugh, “We both have two weeks’ worth of opiates running around our systems.” She told him, “I don’t think booze is a great idea just now.” But she still stood up, regretful, in a way, to leave the warmth of his side. Not out of fear (not entirely, but it would be a long time before she was okay with let him out of her sight) but because she fit so well agains him, it was a shame for them to be seperate. They held hands as she backed away from him, felt his fingers slip from hers, and she smiled gently, “But I’ll see what we have in the fridge.”

She went over to the kitchen and opened the fridge, expecting to find milk that had gone bad, relatively bare shelves, and maybe half a bottle of wine. Instead, she found an obscenely expensive (even for her) bottle of non-alcoholic champagne sitting beside two fresh bottles of milk. On one of the shelves, beside a new box of eggs, was a bowl of cherries. She let out a small squeak of surprise. Bucky turned around from the sofa.

“What?” He asked, “Is something wrong?” A pause, “Aw, crap, did the food go bad? Should I make a run to the store?”

She could think of several reasons why, even if there _was_ a need to go to the store, that was a bad idea. He was still half-drugged up on painkillers, and still healing from the crash, and _missing an arm_. Plus, Steve and Jaime had both offered to be couriers and delivery people for as long as the pair required. But, luckily, it wasn’t necessary, and she turned back to him with a smile, holding up the champagne.

“No need.” She smiled, “We have very good friends.” She passed him the bottle before fetching two champagne glasses and the bowl of cherries (one at a time; _damn my broken arm. Damn it to hell_ ), and sat back down beside him, the two of them working to get the cork free, until it popped almost explosively out and ricocheted off a wall. It landed harmlessly somewhere in the kitchen. It would no doubt trip one of them up the next morning, but they were too tired to care; too tired to get up and find it and bend over to pick it up and put it in the bin (they’d probably regret that, but that was a problem for Future!Bucky and Future!Natasha).

After finally getting the cork free, and pouring two glasses (once again a team effort, which was probably what _everything_ was going to be for the next six-to-eight weeks), they clinked their glasses and toasted the new year, before taking grateful drinks. It wasn’t _quite_ the same as normal champagne, but it tasted nice all the same, and they were glad to do something a little normal after two weeks of stress and confusion.

“Isn’t there something else people’re supposed to do at the new year?” Bucky asked coyly as Natasha placed a cherry between his teeth. He did likewise, and there was a pause as she chewed the fruit, spat out the stone. He was transfixed by her lips, as red as the fruit and just as delicious, he knew. Natasha gave a slow, sultry smile, then answered,

“I don’t know, is there?” She smirked at him, and he leant down, grateful for the fact that, now, he could reach her, and he kissed her deeply. She gave a small laugh and kissed him back, tasting the cherry on their tongues.

“Happy New Year, Natalia.”

“ _S novym godom_ , James.” She replied, cupping his face with her one functioning hand. The kiss had to be careful, bearing in mind their injuries, but they made the most of it (especially considering that on top of the fact they hadn’t had any _fun_ for over a fortnight, they couldn’t have any _fun_ for the next several weeks, due to broken arms and missing arms and so on).

They spent the rest of the evening chatting and drinking and eating cherries, just enjoying one another’s company and revelling in their safety. Sitting idly at the end of the night, long after they’d both fallen asleep on the sofa, were two empty glasses, a half-empty bottle, and an empty bowl on the coffee table. Taped to the bowl was a small note, unmistakable in Anthony Stark’s boyish scrawl.

_Happy New Year, lovebirds. Glad to hear you’re both doing okay. The stuff is on the house from me and Spangles – you can thank your bellhop friend for getting them up here, by the by. She’s also under orders to tell us when you both get back, so expect us tomorrow! Hope you’re feeling better, Stark and Steve x_

_PS, we’ll need your measurements, Bucky-Boy._

_Your arm measurements, get your mind out of the gutter._


	24. Carnelian Change (New Equilibrium)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Wow! Time really flies, huh? It feels like only last week we were talking about the new year! At any rate, there's a lot happening in Hollywood. Filming for _The Pits: Anarchy_ is well underway, and there's a careful eye on our favourite it-boy, Bucky Barnes, who is dealing with his injury and trauma with stunning composure. If you want to donate to his advocated charities, see page 8 for full details and addresses! In other news, director Peggy Carter has announced her engagement to Angela Martinelli, an up-and-coming actress who seems to have stolen a lot more than the show!

Weeks went by, and slowly both Bucky and Natasha came to terms with everything that had happened. Despite their lack of psychological doctorates, they had been right in that trauma took a while to manifest, and whilst they both absolutely fine for the first two weeks, it was downhill from there.

Loud noises were especially unnerving; dropping a plate or a book, or knocking over a lamp caused severe fright in both of them. Steve had dropped his bag on the floor visiting them one day; his usual _fwuff_ of laziness as he toed off his shoes (something his mother would have appalled at; _Steven Grant Rogers I did not raise you in a barn now **hang up your coat!**_ ), and the resulting noise of his bag colliding with the hardwood floor had sent both of them into a state of panic for which he had apologised profusely. As such, for the first month after returning home from the hospital, they mostly kept for themselves, slowly adjusting to the fact that, yes, they were, in fact, traumatised, and that they’d have to process everything. Natasha, in a stereotypical Russian attitude, was displeased about having to talk through her emotions, seeing the trauma as an inconvenience more than anything else. Therapy sessions were a special kind of torture, she was sure.

But, in all honesty, they’d gotten off fairly lightly, since they’d both survived the same ordeal (near enough; Natasha had been conscious through the whole thing, James had lost an arm), they were able to talk about it with one another. And, being naturally resilient people, they weren’t as damaged as other victims (probably because they hadn’t come face-to-face with the sight of their dead spouse sprawled across the ground, eyes open and unseeing). But, for good measure, they were assigned a psychiatrist (a Dr Andrew Garner), and they soon found themselves on the road to getting back to normal.

Well, as normal as they could be, being a pair of internationally-famed actors.

One thing they couldn’t get over so easily, though, was the nightmares. Natasha, who was actually no stranger to nightmares (though she had to admit that train bombing was a new one). For this reason, most likely, they stuck around for much longer (and much more vividly, at that) than Bucky’s nightmares. She took this mostly in her stride, though, which was to say that she spent nights tossing and turning, muttering to herself until Bucky woke her, or she woke herself, which didn’t happen often.

Bucky wondered occasionally, how Natasha had coped before he’d started sleeping with her on a regular enough basis to wake her when she had a nightmare (though they explained why she didn’t date much), and honestly didn’t really care to think about it. It worried him, frankly, and he didn’t like the idea of her being alone after seeing her post bomb. Still, when she did have such nightmares, he was there to stroke her hair and murmur soothingly until she calmed, or wake her outright if he grew too concerned, and then he would hold her close and wait for her terror to pass, and they would fall asleep again, clinging to one another not out of fear and dread, but love and assurance, like characters in a fairytale. She fit in his embrace perfectly. Whether he had one arm or two, it didn’t matter.

Nonetheless, they slowly grew used to this new element of the life they shared together, slowly returned to normality, so that when they dropped a plate, the first thing they did was sigh and go for the dustpan, not shriek and worry for a horrible moment if there was another hidden bomb. Bucky’s prototype prosthetic arrived and was fitted onto his shoulder, Natasha’s cast came off. They started going outside again, began planning for _The Pits: Anarchy_ , the final (probably) instalment in the series, and before they knew it, January had gone, and Valentines (what better way to celebrate than by _finally_ having her cast off? Though, admittedly, she had rather liked the signatures everyone had put on it), and the rest of February in hot pursuit. Before they both knew it, it was March, and what better way to celebrate Bucky’s birthday than with a brand-new arm?

* * *

“Oh, very funny guys.” Bucky grinned as the final version of his prosthetic arm was unveiled before him. It was glittering silver, made of several interlocking metal panels that let it flex and move like any real arm, and just for laughs there was a large red star embellished on the shoulder. As Anthony and Scott fit it into place (where they’d gotten the qualifications to fit it to begin with was beyond him, but he supposed that came as part of Stark’s engineering prowess combined with a vast fortune), he was laughing at the design, but also secretly marvelling. It wasn’t as heavy as it looked, though still markedly heavier than his real arm, and it was jarring to suddenly have a great weight there when there had previously been none. He was now fully thankful for the doctors’ advice not to let himself slump to the side, but even so, it seemed he would have a bit of a waddle anyway (he hoped Natasha would still consider it a _sexy strut_ , though she was equally as likely to simply laugh).

As the arm fitted into place, the nerves in his stump that the doctors had relocated in his multiple surgeries began to interface with the prosthetic’s sensors, and the group watched, enamoured, as Bucky, slowly at first, but then quicker, and then so fluidly as though it were a normal hand, clenched and unclenched his fist. He stared at the metal appendage in awe, the gape becoming an incredulous grin as he moved his metal fingers.

“W—wow.” He choked, eyes filling with tears; beginning to feel very overwhelmed. “Wow, guys. I—thank you. So much, _thank you_.”

Stark slung his arm over Bucky’s shoulders, and, a little slowly, Bucky returned the gesture with his metal arm, and they grinned at one another. “No problem, Bucky-Boy.” Stark smiled, “But let’s make this a first _and_ last time.”

“Agreed.” Steve and Natasha chorused flatly.

“I think I speak for all of us,” Stark continued, “When I say we don’t want you to lose any more bodyparts.” He gave Natasha a roughish wink, which, in her elated mood, she let slide with a light, sweet laugh, and an amiable swat on the shoulder, warning Stark to stay away from her man. Bucky laughed, too and stood to ruffled Steve’s hair with his flesh arm whilst grabbing Natasha around the waist with the metal one, and pulling her close.

“Don’t worry.” He said, murmuring his promise against her cheekbone “First and last.”

“This thing really is a one-of-a-kind, you know.” Stark continued, really getting into the swing of things, “The interface is a one-time thing, so you can just slip it on and it’ll go without warm-up.” There was no stopping him when it came to discussing his tech, and Bucky might’ve wondered why Anthony Stark had ever gone into acting if not for his flamboyant personality. “This is obviously not very low-key, so me and Scott are working on a more real-looking one, we’re just working out the kinks on a layer of synthetic flesh…” Stark’s voice, despite how grateful Bucky was for his generosity, slipped into the background as he looked at Natasha and Steve, grinning back at him.

He found himself thinking that he was so lucky. To have such wonderful friends, there for him always, to have such an incredible girlfriend, an amazing family, a job he loved and a life like a fairytale. He’d lost his way a few times, had hardships like everyone did, and a few that not many others endured, but as he regarded this scene before him, he decided that all the pain, all the tears and all the anger and all the fear had been, one-hundred percent, worth it.

Utterly, utterly worth it.

* * *

“ _Cut!_ ”

The persona of Caden fell away at the cry and was replaced by Bucky at the sound of Natasha’s voice behind the camera. She gave him a smile, and he smiled back as he shuffled off the set. Caden’s armour was annoyingly difficult to move in sometimes, and it didn’t help that his now-very-real metal arm, whilst it was sort of a godsend for the CGI team, was pretty heavy, thanks to all the hi-tech machinery. Even the flesh-coloured one (that was scarily realistic if you couldn’t see the seam on his shoulder) was bulky, weighing the better part of forty pounds when you factored in the layer of synthetic flesh, and Stark insisted that the fact it didn’t weigh closer to fifty was an engineering miracle in itself given the moving parts and technology beneath the fake-flesh surface.

Said flesh-coloured arm was so realistic that he doubted the press would have caught on if he hadn’t shown on a TV interview that he, too, had been on the bombed train (though as far as the public were concerned, he and Natasha hadn’t been aware that the other had been present) and showed the audience his now-missing appendage in an effort to help raise money and awareness. One result of this reveal had been that press had started to paint them as a pair of valiant charity workers, which he was starting to find a little saccharine, because contrary to the belief of the minds of the public, he _wasn’t_ an angel dedicating his every spare moment to the other victims (if that made him a horrible person, then fine, he was a horrible person), rather he attended functions and donated money and occasionally went down to the kids ward at the local hospital (he was on quite good terms with Dr Ross now, and not just because her presence meant he could 100% stop worrying about Banner, a mind-niggle he’d never fully put to rest, even if he was completely sure in the knowledge that Natasha would never leave him for Banner. She was a genuinely nice woman and he genuinely liked kids). Those visits usually entailed him letting the kids try to arm-wrestle his fake arm. He always wore the metal one to those visits, because they thought it looked cooler, and he always let the kids win.

The flesh-coloured arm, it seemed, could fool anybody. Anybody, that is, except Natasha, who had every contour of his body committed to memory (to which, incidentally, he could claim likewise), and was the only person who touched him regularly enough to feel the difference between metal muscles and real ones. She had been almost happier than he’d been when he’d finally gotten the prosthetic because it had been another step to recovery, but despite this, there was something oddly thrilling that they both liked when he took it off to go to sleep at night. It was a very personal moment, very intimate, in a way that was almost absurd, because they knew one another as well as they knew themselves. Even still, there had been a sort of weight to the first time she had taken it off for him, rather than letting him do so himself.

It hadn’t been an ability quarrel, though Dr Gardner had warned both of them to take their time with regaining the abilities of their respective arms, and how the key was patience. Natasha, after getting her cast off, had clearly been worried about smothering him as much as she’d been worried about _him_ , and had alternated in being overly attentive, to almost distant. He’d appreciated her efforts to offer both the aid and space he needed, but eventually they’d developed and ingenious system: if they needed help, they’d just ask for it.

Bucky hadn’t needed help that night, though. The first thing Stark had talked him through was how to put on and take off the prosthetic simply and efficiently. The remainder of his real left arm was both the nerve interface for the arm’s sensors, but also the anchor on which is fit to his body, specially shaped to his stump (the fact that Becky had taken to calling him ‘ _Stumpy_ ’ was a testament to both their relationship and how far he’d come in getting used to his new situation, though the fact that it appalled their mother had probably helped the nickname to stick as much as it had) so it stayed on. The whole arm actually covered a lot of his shoulder as well, so it looked as though he’d lost the entire arm, but this was to anchor it to his body. It had yet to fall off, but who knew.

One downside (and there were a few) was that he could no longer do his own stunts – at least, not as many as he used to, but that had been a small price to pay when compared with the fact that he still had his life, his health, and his loved ones. Many other victims had been much less fortunate. Another downside was that he couldn’t wear the arm at night; it was bad for his shoulder muscles, for one thing, and also pretty awkward to sleep on top of a thirty-five-pound metal-and-plastic appendage. He still got phantom-limb syndrome, which meant that many times, he’d moved to prop himself up on one arm (maybe when he woke up, maybe to move in bed, any number of reasons, really), and had been confused as to why he hadn’t actually moved. So taking it off each night was kind of personal, because it was physically and mentally unbalancing, and for a long time, it was like rediscovering losing his arm all over again.

And so that first night, when he’d asked Natasha if she could take it off, and they’d sat on the end of their bed, Natasha sideways, with one leg hanging off, and himself facing forwards, there had been a very heavy and careful air about them as she’d slowly pried off the prosthetic, and, in a moment of something that wasn’t quite _bravery_ , but like it, pressed her lips to the top of his shoulder, an echo of the gesture he did in passing so many times; a hand on her upper arm, a quick peck on her shoulder as he rushed off to see Steve or head to the store. He’d jumped a little, but had relaxed, because it had been another step back to normality. He’d been worried that she worried about him. And she did, they both knew it. But this was her saying she was there, and she didn’t care what had happened, she had him, and she wasn’t letting him go. He hadn’t even realised he’d been worried about that until she’d kissed him, and so it was like another weight had come off his shoulders, and he’d turned to her, and smiled, and raised his right arm to cup the back of her neck and kiss her back.

 _Utterly, utterly worth it_.

“Good take.” Stark grinned as Bucky shrugged off the several heavy plates of armour that were his costume. The only thing that kept him from just dropping them to the floor was the respect he held for the costuming department. He was eager to rip off the fake, scar, too, but it was difficult to make and so the make-up team liked to peel it off carefully and use it for a few days instead of making a new one every morning (plus, it saved time). Again, the only thing preventing him from ripping it off of his face was the wrath of Melinda, the head make-up artist. “Blueberry?” Stark held a packet out to Bucky, who frowned, confused.

“What? No.” Then, as an afterthought, “Thanks.”

“STARK!” Natasha’s voice, irritated and growing closer, sounded from behind them, and the pair turned to see their director marching towards them crossly, “For the hundredth time! _Stop hiding food on set!_ ” Frankly, if she thought it was only the hundredth time, she was severely underestimating.

Anthony, along with a louder-than-life personality, a serious talent for engineering, and a self-proclaimed insatiable appetite in the sack ( _Stark, I know we’re friends but Steve’s like my brother and that is **not** an image I needed_ ), had an insatiable appetite _out_ of the sack, too, and had been, for the past three years or so, been hiding food on set and pulling packets of biscuits and berries out seemingly at random. He was nice enough to not take anything that would melt or stink (such as a chocolate bar, or cheese), but it had been a source of irritation for the crew nonetheless. However, though Natasha was snapping at him, everyone knew it was cursory because everyone had long-since given up trying to stop him. For one thing, they could never find all of his hiding places.

In response to Natasha’s irritation, he only held out the packet to her. “Blueberry?” Natasha glared at him for a moment before taking a couple, because she actually did really like them. When she walked away (not before giving Bucky a peck on the cheek; they were the set’s worst-kept secret) to begin packing up her own things for the day, Stark gave a laugh, and threw a blueberry into the air, catching it in his mouth triumphantly.

“You’re a weirdo, you know that?” Bucky asked him, and Stark gave another laugh,

“The word you’re looking for is _philanthropist_.” He corrected his co-star, then, parroting the tone of an online dictionary, “Other words that would also apply are _genius_ , _billionaire_ and _playboy_.”

“Not whilst you’re dating Steve it doesn’t.” Bucky reminded him in a warning tone, and Anthony grinned.

“Don’t worry, Bucky-Boy,” He said breezily, “I’m a one-man guy, now. Spangles has me tied down _real_ good. Or, in the case of last night, tied _up_ —”

“ _LALALALANOTLISTENING!_ ” Bucky yelled, clamping his hands over his ears – another testament to Stark and Scott’s prosthetic that his left arm responded almost as quickly as his right one. Stark gave a laugh,

“Re- _lax_ , Stumpy—” Had Stark been talking to his sister? Or was that a coincidence? He supposed either scenario was equally likely, if he was dating Steve, and had designed Bucky’s own arm, “—I’m just pulling your leg. And for the record, Spangles is pretty vanilla anyway. That said, he isn’t up for a little rope burn now and then. Dunno ‘bout you but there’s something _fun_ about tying someone to a bedpost–––”

Bucky chose that moment to talk away, leaving Stark to reminisce about – _ugh_ – sleeping with Bucky’s would-be brother. The very notion that Steve or Rebecca did so much as _kiss_ boys was unnerving to say the least. In Bucky’s mind, they would be young and innocent forever and there was nothing anyone could say to change that.

“You look ill, was Stark talking about his sex life again?” Natasha asked as he approached her. Bucky nodded and began rummaging in his bag, pulling out a button-neck shirt and a pair of jeans to change into. Natasha made a sympathetic but wordless noise and kissed him on the cheek again as he went to get changed before she herself went over to Stark to remind him why she was feared as well as beloved.

He watched her go and thought for the millionth time how much he loved her; all her little quirks, her ferocity and sass, how she could be solemn one moment, and cracking stupid, dirty jokes the next. How she was there for him, but always worrying that she was _too_ there, or not enough, and how they seemed to stumble around one another because they were afraid of losing each other, even though they both knew it would never happen. He caught her wrist with his metal arm, felt her touch jerk not from unease, mere surprise. His arm, they’d noted early on, was not icy cold. Something of the machinery inside and his own body heat made it instead pleasantly cool. He also, by some miracle of Stark’s, had a vague sense of touch with it. Pressure sensors, and the like, but though they were only on his palm and fingertips, they were highly sensitive, and he could feel her pulse thrumming under the pad of his finger. It was sped up. Almost nothing could make her pulse speed up, he knew. She was calm and collected, dauntless in the face of crowds or danger or judgement. But him? He could make her pulse skyrocket by a simple touch, or a smile, or simply by walking into a room, nose in a book, humming absently to himself. He knew these things because she’d told him; because she’d told him she loved him.

“Yes?” Natasha turned to look at him, and he smiled at her. Warmly, in a way that was almost like he was seeing her for the first time. One of those looks that went beyond something cursory, even to someone you loved. Like a moment of true clarity. As such, she felt the urge to blush, and probably would have if not for the fact that they were in public, and even with James, Natasha Romanoff did _not_ blush in public. Her having a boyfriend ( _still sounds weird!_ ) made no difference to her danger. “Is something wrong, James?” She asked. He felt her pulse increase again, this time with concern as well as anticipation.

“Not at all.” He promised her, “I just… I just remembered how much I love you.”

Natasha blushed at his words, and took a step forward, closing the distance between them. She returned his smile; his clarity grin, and gazed up into his brown eyes. Her still shone, emerald green. He found himself transfixed by them, as always, but not for quite the same reason as usual.

“Your eyes.” He murmured, “They’re bright again.” Indeed, they were. They’d been dark for a long time; muted. First by Petrovitch, then by Grant Ward and Clairvoyant. Now they shone again, bright as ever. She smiled up at him.

“They are.” She agreed, “Thanks to you.” She leant up and kissed him soundly on the cheek, “I love you, too, James.” She whispered in his ear, before stepping away, and then he was left with the memory of her words echoing in his head, sending a dopey grin to his face. Her eyes were bright. Thanks to him. He’d brightened them for her once, and he’d done it again. Natasha found herself fighting her blush more and more, wondering how she’d gotten so lucky to find a man such as him.

Her eyes were bright, because they finally had something beautiful to look at.

* * *

“Can you believe it’s been almost two years?” Anthony asked Steve that night. Steve turned to him, looking _way_ better than anyone had any right to be in the moonlight, his blond hair turning to gold, and his eyes shining luminously in the half-light. A flash of white cut through the semi-darkness; a smile.

“What, Bucky and Nat?” He asked, “Not really. Can you?”

Anthony shrugged, “Not really.” He parroted, “I mean, they fit so well together but… I dunno, time flies I guess.” A small pause, and he watched as Steve turned over to reach for a bottle of water on the nightstand, and took a moment to admire the muscles of his back moving as he did so. Anthony then decided as Steve was taking a drink to continue, “They were moved in together about a year after they started dating, right? Ten-months ish?” Steve nodded, still drinking, and Anthony continued again, “Maybe we should follow suit.”

Just as he’d aspired, Steve choked on the water and sat violently upright in the bed. Anthony then proceeded to laugh loudly, earning a glare from Steve as he wiped himself dry with the bedsheet.

“That was childish.” He said flatly, but Anthony was still laughing. “ _Childish!_ ” He insisted, though it made no difference. Once Anthony’s finally stopped laughing, he turned to Steve again with a cocky grin.

“So?” He prompted, “What d’you think?”

Steve stared at him, “Wait, you were serious?”

Anthony shrugged, “ _Pfft_ , of course. I know I have a reputation for meaningless flings, but we’ve been…” He paused, clearly unused to, and a little bashful about, talking about being in a couple, “… _us_ for, what? A year?”

“Ten months, two weeks.” Steve said, hating that he had an impeccable internal calendar. He blushed crimson. But Anthony seemed to like it, and gave a small smile.

“There you go, then.” He said, “And besides, you spend most nights over at my place anyway. I think we both know the only reason you’re still here is so you and Bucky-Boy can pretend you’re single and throw off the paparazzi.”

“Yeah, but that’s because both _us_ and Bucky and Nat like our privacy. Well, me, Bucky and Nat do, anyway.” He corrected himself wryly. Anthony was not really known for discretion.

“I’m sneaky when I want to be.” He smiled, coy. “I’ve been sleeping with you, haven’t I? Papers haven’t got a clue.”

“Yeah, but if I move in with you, then all four of us will be outed.”

“Technically, only _we’ll_ be ‘outed’.” Anthony grinned, adding air-quotes, which made Steve roll his eyes. It was true that no one aside from their own family and friends knew the pair were gay – well, Steve was, anyway. Anthony played for both teams so hard he could _be_ both teams, so to speak. He grinned again, “But if you don’t want to move in with me, that’s fine. I could always move in with you.”

“What?” That seemed to catch Steve by surprise more than the first suggestion, “You? Move in here? But I thought you loved your apartment?” It was, indeed, a lovely apartment, overlooking the bay and the open sea. It was an envied view, a _gorgeous_ view.

“It’s just an apartment, Steve.” Anthony shrugged, with an expression that suggested this was obvious. “It’s a really nice apartment, but it’s still just an apartment.” He paused, and leant over to kiss Steve’s elbow Steve was sitting upright against the headboard, Anthony himself was lying flat on his back, and so the elbow was really the highest he could reach right now. Plus, it was adorable in a sort of pathetic way, and it turned out that being a _genius_ included how to do flawless puppy eyes when needs arose. “And if you don’t want to move into my home, then I can move into yours.” He paused, “…unless you don’t _want_ to move in with me.” It actually hadn’t occurred to him that Steve might say _no_ , and he cringed, suddenly worried.

Steve seemed to sense this, and smiled, shuffling down so he was not quite lying down, but not sitting upright, either. “Tony,” He said – weirdly enough, not many people called him that – “ _Of course_ I want to move in with you. You’re my boyfriend, I… I love you.” That was not the first time they’d said it to one another, but Steve was one of those people who only used the phrase when they really meant it, and so used it sparingly in a way to preserve its meaning. Anthony, on the other hand, was just a bit of an emotional coward, and didn’t like laying his feelings out on a plate much, even with Steve (but he was working on it, and he’d actually gotten a lot better). “It’s just… it’s a big step, y’know? And I’ve never really… taken than step with anyone. Even with Peggy, I mean… I think we both knew it was kind of just for show when we _did_ date, because now she’s with Angie, and I’m with _you_ and—” He was babbling, and he knew it, and he really couldn’t stop himself, and so he clapped his hand over his mouth to force himself to stop. Anthony looked at him. Steve was even cuter upside-down, he decided, and his blue eyes were wide and curious. Anthony felt his lips move and words emerge, but he felt as though he were watching this in third person. It didn’t seem quite… real.

“So… d’you want me to move in with you or not?”

There was a long pause after Anthony said this; the air seemed heavy and still with the seriousness of the conversation, with the potential. After a moment, Anthony realised he was holding his breath, but he didn’t dare let it out all the same. The tension grew, thickened, to breaking point, so much that a mere whisper would break it.

“Okay.”

Anthony almost keeled over. “I… _what?_ ” He exclaimed, and in his haste to roll over so he could face Steve properly, he actually rolled off of the edge of the bed, and landed on the floor with a thud and a vaguely pitiful, “…ow.”

“Tony!” Steve exclaimed, leaning over to brace himself on the edge of the bed, look over the edge, and see his boyfriend in a heap on the floor, tangled in the bedsheet he’d dragged off with his own body. “Are you okay?”

He was answered by Anthony bolting from his tangled heap on the floor to an upright a sitting position, which, thanks to Steve’s leaning over the edge of the bed, meant he barely had to lean forwards to kiss him soundly on the lips, his hands coming up to grip the side of Steve’s face and hold his lips to Anthony’s own. He only let go and allowed Steve to take a breath so that he himself could answer.

“Never been better, Spangles.” And he stole Steve’s breath again.


	25. Poppy Star (Public Displays of Affection)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: Warning! Don't believe what your favourite celebrities are posting on Twitter! In light of a recent hack, everyone's a-twitter with concerns about who's dead, who's dating, and who's down-right dumb! A number of well-known accounts have been hacked, and users are urged to tread carefully, as well as being extra-careful with their own login details. In other news, the premiere date of _The Pits: Anarchy_ grows ever closer. We can't wait!

“Yelena. _Yelena_. Please, can you— _Lena_ , come on!” Natasha was trying (and failing) to get Yelena to turn off the waterworks. It was the last day of filming for _The Pits: Anarchy_ , and it seemed that Bucky’s co-star was actually a lot fonder of the film and cast than she’d previously let on. There was just no stopping her. Off to the side, he could see Stark nudging Steve pointedly. Steve glared back at his boyfriend (Bucky still couldn’t believe the two were _living_ together, but, hey, as long as Stark stayed in line and didn’t do anything to hurt Steve – which would result in one angry English woman, one angry Russian woman and one _furious_ Brooklyn boy all coming down on his engineering ass like a ton of bad-tempered bricks – who was he to judge?).

Stark elbowed Steve again, who gave a sigh, letting his head loll back in an exaggerated show of hardship, before walking over to Yelena and patting her shoulder comfortingly, “There, there.” He said, which then prompted the woman to throw herself on him, sobbing loudly into her shoulder. Natasha, despite the fact that Yelena was her friend (but in her defence, she didn’t really _do_ crying), took this out whilst she had it and scampered off to join Bucky.

“I’ve never seen her like this.” She said mildly, watching her friends with raised eyebrows. Bucky gave a small snort, a sound she had not heard often, despite being his girlfriend for two years (near enough). She decided now that she liked it very much. Something about James being cocky was just… alluring.

“Something tells me she’s more cut up about her co-star’s batting preference than the film.” He said dryly. Natasha was well-aware that he and Yelena didn’t really get on, but she wasn’t about to try and change that, because if someone didn’t like someone else, it was just a fact of life and you’d have to get used to it. An old flame of hers, for example, Matt Murdock (small world, actually, because he and his friend Foggy were now the go-to lawyers of Steve and James) had simply found it impossible to like Clint. The feeling had been reciprocated, though, which she supposed made it better, in a way. The two just hadn’t gotten along. That was probably part of the reason they’d broken up, but there had been others, and he was still a good friend, as well as her own lawyer of choice, because he and Foggy – she still thought that name was silly, but wasn’t about to start complaining about it now – were talented as hell when it came to the courtroom. Despite that, however, they’d had their share of… _flings_ since then – none, of course, since she’d started dating James, though. Matt didn’t seem to be too worried, he was quite the ladies’ man, even if he couldn’t see them, and she made a point to see him every few months, catch up on current affairs, ask him about ‘that nice nurse of yours’, answer questions about her film and swear him to secrecy before spilling one titbit of information about her and James.

“Oh, shush.” She said briskly, swatting his arm lightly, “It’s the last day, _everyone’s_ a bit emotional.”

“I wouldn’t say Bobbi and Hunter shagging in the dressing rooms really counts as _emotional_ , but okay.” James replied mildly, and Natasha turned to stare at him.

“Again?” She asked, “That’s got to be, what? Five days since they broke up again?”

“Don’t tell Steve.” Was Bucky’s reply, “I had twenty bucks that they’d actually make it a week this time.”

“James Barnes.” Natasha’s mouth curled, “Are you asking me to deceive my good friend for monetary gain?”

“Well, you _are_ my girlfriend.” He said lightly, “So really your first loyalty should be to me,” He gave a grin, “Plus, given that _I’m_ buying dinner, it’d be in your best interests.”

“Oh, please,” She scoffed, and Bucky gave a small laugh, “We both have more money than we know what to do with. We could retire from acting tomorrow and still live like kings for the rest of our days.”

“So why don’t you?” Bucky asked with a smile, leaning down to nuzzle the side of her neck.

“The same reason you don’t.” She replied, and made a profound gesture with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his waist and ghosting lower to pinch his ass, somewhat negating the profoundness of her next words. “The allure of the camera, the siren’s call of the silver screen.”

“Deep.” He quipped, gently taking the hand that was squeezing him and pulling it up to rest chastely on his waist, “And nice try,” He added, murmuring in her ear, “But we’ve made it two years, and it wouldn’t do to get sloppy now.” At that, Natasha opened her mouth, then closed it again; clearly going to say something, but hesitating. Bucky’s eyebrow raised, “What is it, Natalia?” He asked her, his voice suddenly soft and urgent. She paused,

“I…” She said slowly, “I’ve been thinking about that, actually. Maybe… maybe it’s time we… let it out.”

“Let it out?” He echoed, she nodded. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, no! Of course not!” She said quickly, “I just… it’s been two years, James. Part of the reason I wanted to keep it quiet was so that, if this _did_ turn out to be a fling, it wouldn’t be documented or put under a microscope or anything. If this wasn’t meant to be, then it would happen, and then it wouldn’t. Like with… regular people.” She finished, a little lamely. But he understood her, and he nodded.

“I get it.” He said, “But are you sure? I mean, now that you mention it, I wouldn’t mind letting it out. It’d be nice to kiss you in public,” He added, because beyond the safety of their home and the set, all bets were off, and (most of the time) they were meticulous in making sure they didn’t appear overly close, lest there be a watchful lens in attendance. “But once it’s out, it’s never going back in.”

“Stark would say there’s a joke in there, somewhere.” She murmured, her tone wry. He smiled, and she continued, “But, yeah, I get it. We have to be sure.” A pause, “I… I don’t think I could ever be _completely_ sure about this, if I’m honest. But… I think I’m ready, James.” She looked up at him, “I love you. I want the world to know that. Let’s stop hiding.”

“Are you saying that because you love me, or because it’d stop girls flirting with me when we go out?” He asked her, his voice teasing. She turned to him with a smile and twined her arms around his neck, turning to face him fully. His hands were on her waist, one warm, one comfortably cold. She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the metal.

“A little bit of both.” She replied in a teasing voice, “But it’d stop guys flirting with me, and don’t act like you wouldn’t appreciate that.” She added, and he nodded in agreement as she leant up to kiss him.

* * *

In the following days, the pair didn’t actively announce their relationship, so much as stop hiding it. They were a little freer with kisses and touches, they didn’t monitor their every movement when they went out as a pair. Old habits die hard, of course, and it took a while before acting _in_ love in public became as natural as acting _out_ of love had formerly been.

And the press, for all their micro-analysing, didn’t seem to notice a thing. It was annoying, frankly. It started out amusing, but was getting downright tedious. Then again, in the wake of Peggy’s getting engaged, the Scarlet Starlet and Hollywood’s “It-Boy” were taking up far less paparazzi space than normal (which in itself was actually kind of a godsend). But, whilst the brief reprieve was appreciated, it felt kind of like Murphy’s Law that as soon as they actually sort-of wanted the attention, they didn’t get any.

“I’d probably have a bigger appreciation for the irony if it wasn’t so damn annoying.” Bucky said lightly one afternoon, as they strolled through the park. Natasha, her fingers intertwined with his, gave a small laugh. It was late summer, and _The Pits: Anarchy_ would be released in only a few days, and now that filming had ended, Bucky had delighted in being able to wear his hair short again (long hair in summer was _hardly_ fun), and was sporting a style that Natasha loved, but thought was more suited to the 1940’s. Regardless, despite the time of year, the weather was mild today, and Natasha had donned Bucky’s “hipster beanie” atop her head in a half-hearted attempt to disguise her conspicuous hair, which fell in silky waves over her shoulders. Just because they were trying to out their relationship didn’t mean they wanted to be hounded by paparazzi _all_ the time. Today was a _them_ day. To add to the relative discretion was the fact that Bucky had donned the flesh-coloured arm for their outing. It was scarily realistic in the sun, able to fool any onlooker given that his t-shirt sleeve easily covered the seam where fake flesh became genuine.

“I don’t mind,” She said, “I just want to be able to kiss you in public, I don’t want to be under a microscope.”

“This is Hollywood, _Natalia_ ,” He said, ducking his head slightly to nuzzle her ear affectionately. “The whole _city_ is under a microscope.” As if to accentuate his point, they passed a man sitting on a bench with a newspaper, the headline splurged across the front; _STOLEN MORE THAN JUST THE SHOW:_ _DIRECTOR PEGGY CARTER ENGAGED TO UP-AND-COMING ACTRESS._ “I, for one, think you look very good under a microscope, anyway.”

“You’re my James, of course you’d say that.” Natasha smiled dryly, leaning up to kiss his jaw softly. She’d taken to calling him _her James_ out loud over the past few months. It just sort of… happened, but he honestly adored it, loved _being_ hers, just as he loved her being his. But Natasha did agree with her statement. She’d long since decided that the idea of finding someone you love wasn’t being attractive to everyone, but being utterly beautiful to _that one person_. It didn’t matter if you weren’t stunning to the whole world, as long as you were to the one you loved, because it was their opinion that mattered. “But _public_ relationship doesn’t mean _examined_ relationship. Or, it shouldn’t.”

At this, Bucky turned to her with a wry smile, “How public is _too_ public?” He asked, deciding she looked very fetching in his hat and casual clothing. She smirked back at him.

“Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.” She replied. He nodded,

“That they do.” He agreed, and ducked his head again, “But am I making _you_ uncomfortable?” He asked lowly.

“Ask me when we get home.” Was her answer, in an equally low and suggestive tone. _Home_ , in this instance, didn’t refer to their apartment. In recent months, they’d decided to find a new home together – though it was not a decision they made lightly, they were both confident enough that it would be a worthwhile and longstanding investment. The city apartment was gorgeous, of course, and she still owned it so they had somewhere in the middle of the city to “operate out of” (being a world-famous actor came with its monetary perks, so it wasn’t like they couldn’t afford it) purely out of simplicity. Off-peak months (such as the current break they had between filming one movie and another – though of course now _The Pits_ were finished, so the break could well be much longer) were mostly spent in this new home.

Deciding against a cleaner (apparently Bucky had had this one problem where a girl he and Steve had hired to clean their place had started stealing and selling their clothes; needless to say he now had trust issues), they instead paid Jaime to go to the apartment once a week to clean and dust and so on, and had given her permission to stay in the guest room if she ever needed some place to crash (or escape the evergrowing torrent of nutty ex-boyfriends she seemed to possess). Their new home was in a far more rural area: a large, modernised farmhouse that was truly a home for _them_. One they’d bought and furbished _together_.

They both considered it nicer than the apartment, not for the locale or the style (which were lovely and very different, but nothing super-spectacular) but for the fact it was _theirs_ and they _shared_ it. Three bedrooms, (which they’d never need, so they’d converted one to a study) a kitchen befitting a cooking show, a large living room, the walls of which _entirely_ covered by shelves, save for a space for the TV. They even had a _dining room_ ; Natasha had _never_ had a dining room, and Bucky hadn’t had one since he’d moved out of his mother’s house. With their collective book and DVD collections, these shelves were comfortably full, and Bucky had been trying to let Natasha move his ‘book coffins’ from the apartment (which he still officially shared with Steve) in the city into this new home. He had succeeded a few weeks ago only when Stark had threatened to burn them because they were taking up space in what was now _his_ home, not Bucky’s ( _how much space do you need for scripts? / How much space do **you** need for knick-knacks? / They’re **not** knick-knacks, they’re projects!_ ). However, Natasha had refused to have the book coffins cluttering the theme of their living room, so they instead lived in the study.

“Home’s a long way away,” Bucky murmured into her ear, “Apartment’s closer.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Natasha rolled her eyes, trying to hide how hot under the collar she was getting.

“Resolute, actually.” Bucky smiled far too angelically than should have been legal. “But you love me.”

“Lucky for you.” She muttered darkly, and he chuckled, letting go of her hand so he could loop his arm around her shoulders and pull her closer. She wrapped her own arm comfortably around his waist, debating whether or not to tease him and pinch his ass when no one was looking.

“Just saying…” He said, “We have the _whole week_ to ourselves. Got another five days before the film comes out. Five more days of privacy.” Five days indeed. For most of the past week they hadn’t left the house, instead choosing to lounge around in underwear (or less), eating fatty takeout and watching reruns of reruns of dramas and comedies and classic movies. It had been disgustingly unproductive, lazy and indulgent. They had both loved it.

But, of course, too much of anything was bad, and Natasha had woken up that morning with a serious bout of cabin fever, and a desire to spend a few hours in someplace a little more urban; more skyscrapers and fewer trees. Bucky had decided to come along, and they had dropped by Steve and Stark’s now-shared apartment for lunch and a catch-up, and now they were strolling through the park.

“Yes, we have five more days to spend boinking.” Natasha said briskly, “But I want to _do_ something today – something besides you.” She added, making him pout. “I want a new book, something to read over the summer whilst we wait out the hype.” Because after the cursory premiere and seemingly-endless succession of interviews, there would be a period in which neither of them would be able to get out of the house for fear of being attacked by reporters.

“Fair enough.” Bucky shrugged, “But I’m holding you to that.” He paused, “Actually, it’s probably good we came out today, I need to get going – I’ve got something to get, myself. Why don’t you head over to the bookstore now, I’ll meet you there later?” It didn’t matter what he was buying, because Natasha could spend _hours_ poring over books. She’d no doubt return to the house that night with enough to fill at least another two shelves.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at the vagueness, “Something?” She echoed. He blushed,

“Steve.” He said, “He needs to get something – present for Stark, maybe. Asked if I could help him with it.” He shrugged. Natasha seemed satisfied by this and shrugged in response, smirking a little amusedly.

“Okay, James.” She said, “But don’t take too long, or I might be too wrapped up in a new book tonight.” This was not, they both knew, an empty threat. It took all of Bucky’s skill, luck and wiles to coax Natasha away from a good book. Even two years later, he only succeeded about half the time.

“Don’t worry,” He smiled, “I won’t be _that_ long.” He ducked down and kissed her; deeply and lovingly, because he could, because they weren’t hiding anymore, and even if the press never got wind of that, it didn’t matter if they _did_. Because this was more than a fling, more than something to splash across the front page of a tabloid. This was love, deep and real and it had been tested by more than the petty whims and habits of the paparazzi, tested by real jealousy and anger and tragedy, and it had survived, it had _thrived_. The press could do their worst, could try their hardest, _bring it on_.

James’ kiss bordered on debauchery, frankly, bordered on _too public_ , as they had been discussing earlier. He was smugly pleased when he pulled away, leaving Natasha almost gasping, before planting another soft, small kiss on her lips, and turning, walking the other way, down the path to meet Steve. Natasha’s brain was confused; slowed down by his kiss (how did he do that to her? Every time?), and it felt as though one moment he was there, and the next, he wasn’t. When she found herself again, calmed down and resumed her normal, logical state of mind, she curled a smile (she was willing to bet that her lipstick, kiss-proof and smudge-proof as it was, was mostly on James’ own face and tongue right now) and she raised a hand to touch her lips gently, already missing the feeling of her mouth on hers.

Then she let out a small, breathy laugh, shook her head ruefully, and continued down the path on the way to her bookstore.

* * *

The next day, they were eating breakfast in their kitchen (the dining room was for dinner and guests, really). Their kitchen overlooked a field, and so much of one wall was glass, edged by the strong wooden beams that added to both the house’s structural integrity, and rural aesthetic. Natasha was sore in all the right ways, happily sleepy and safe in the knowledge that she had nothing to do today but enjoy herself. Eat some good food, read a good book, make some good ( _very_ good) love.

Currently, she was enjoying the second item on that list, whilst the first was being prepared, and she basked in the afterglow of the third. Her current book was some adventure-fantasy novel by an up-and-coming author, about a boy who was cast out of his home to brave the numerous dangers of the outside world. She rather liked fantasy novels; something to take her away from her life, when things got complicated or difficult or she just needed a break.

Their nightmares had improved greatly over the past couple of weeks. They had decreased in frequency and intensity, and on those occasions where one of them _did_ thrash or cry out or scream or sob, the other was always there to gently wake and offer soothing words of comfort, a warm, solid embrace, a gentle kiss on the forehead and a promise that it was all in the past. Therapy was another story, and frankly Natasha _lived_ for the day when she could say goodbye to those sessions. She didn’t like being psychoanalysed at the best of times, and was now solidly of the opinion that she was okay and didn’t require any more of it. She suspected she was just seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, and was eager to reach it. James, it seemed, was indifferent to the experience, neither particularly enjoying or disliking his therapy sessions. But he had come along marvellously if just for that, and his command of his prosthetic limb (god, he was such a geek, wearing the silver Caden-esque one around the house. _Such a geek_ , but she loved him) was exquisite.

She was lost in her thoughts of her book and her life and her boyfriend, drifting from their bedroom to the kitchen, murmuring _good morning_ s and considerably less proper things in James’ ear, only jolting out of the pleasant reverie when her phone buzzed.

Vaguely annoyed, Natasha had to pull herself away from James, around whose waist she’d wrapped her arms and begun to kiss the back of his neck softly, formulating vague plans about how best to spend the day. She shuffled over to the stand she’d left her phone on (she usually brought it into the bedroom in case Clint had a crisis and needed a last-minute babysitter, or there was a problem at the studios) as Bucky continued making the eggs (who said that the fastest way to someone’s heart was through their stomach applied only to men?) and inquired over his shoulder.

“Who is it?” He called from the kitchen,

“Steve,” she called back from the kitchen, “He’s asking me if I’m free tonight so we can continue our passionate love-affair.”

“We don’t have any plans, have at it.” Bucky replied smoothly. Over the past few months, Stark and Bucky, and Natasha and Steve, respectively, had taken to pretending to be having affairs with one another. It was a stupid joke and none of them remembered what or who (Stark) had started it. “Speaking of which, Stark’s coming over, we’re gonna screw on the couch.”

“Aw,” Natasha pouted, now coming back into the kitchen, phone in hand. “I was kinda hoping me and Steve could have first crack at the couch.”

“We could compromise, do it right now?” Bucky suggested, turning to flash her a predatory and highly suggestive smile. She raised an eyebrow as though considering it.

“Maybe,” she said after a moment, “I’ll get back to you after eggs.” She grinned, then checked her phone for Steve’s text, and swore lowly in Russian. Bucky at once dropped his mischievous act, turning to her with concern.

“What is it?” He asked, but already his worry was evaporating, because she was showing him her phone screen and the text from Steve. He’d sent a link, and she read aloud his message,

“ _Well, it finally happened. Sort of. Be careful what you wish for and all that._ And there’s a link...” She paused, clicking it, and a page opened up on his phone. There was a pause as she scanned the page it loaded, and then she whistled through her teeth, “Oh god.” She muttered.

Bucky leant forwards, “ _What?_ ” He asked, and Natasha handed him her phone. It was a gossip blog of some sort, and splashed across the top of the page was a picture of them in the park couple of days ago. They were sat on a bench, and she was laughing, her face in full view of the mystery photographer, with James tucked into her neck. Was he kissing her or nuzzling her at that moment? She didn’t know, but she was smacking his shoulder lightly, chastising him insincerely, and his face as almost entirely hidden by her neck and hair. Underneath the picture, in black, bold letters, were the words _Is the Scarlet Starlet off the Market?_ And underneath _that_ , in smaller letters was the tagline: _The Rumours Are True. Hollywood’s Favourite Actress-Turned-Director is Spotted in Plummer Park With A Mystery Man._

“Well… you said you wanted to out us.” Natasha said mildly, “I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so…”

“Lamely?” He suggested flatly, and she cringed, _kinda_ , she thought.

“Not exactly.” Was what she said out loud, “Y’know, a little more publicly, not just something on a gossip blog.”

“Maybe it’s because it’s the same story they’ve been running for the past year.” He suggested, “Only now, they _know_ you’re going out with someone instead of just theorising. They just don’t know who that someone is.” He sounded slightly bitter, which made her laugh, and she leant over,

“Aw, poor big movie star’s upset because the paparazzi won’t stalk him,” she said, mock-comfortingly.

“ _Kinda!_ ” He insisted, and she laughed again, because he really was adorable when annoyed. She looped her arms around his neck and gave him a comforting kiss.

“They _already_ stalk us both.” He pointed out, not dropping the matter, “And frankly, I could deal with that.” He took her hand, kissing it softly and holding it to his chest. He smiled, though he was still clearly a little put out by the _mystery man_ comments, “I don’t mind if the world finds out about us.” He told her, “As long as it doesn’t pull us apart.”

“Oh, like it could.” She grinned and rolled her eyes, “We’re both already used to it, we’ve been through much worse, anyways. What could they _possibly_ throw at us?” She paused then, and grinned at him so wide he knew she’d gotten a truly diabolical plan – it was at times like this he realised just how much he loved her, and just how much she could still terrify him. This woman was deadly; beautiful and deadly.

“I know how we can kill two birds with one stone.” She said, leaning in close, “Let’s see what the world makes of my _mystery man_.” Her grin was wicked as she wrapped one arm around the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. He responded eagerly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. Cranberries again, he was addicted. He was so lost in the kiss – and she was, too – that he didn’t notice she was holding up her phone.

He heard the click of the camera and pulled away, confused, and then he saw the picture on his phone’s screen. Bucky grinned, realising exactly what she was doing as she posted the picture on her Twitter feed with the caption: _You wanted to know who my ‘mystery man’ was? Take a wild guess, Hollywood!_

Less than thirty seconds later, Steve was calling them and yelling all sorts of “oh my god what did you guys do the internet is breaking everyone’s freaking out do you have _any idea what you just signed up for?_ ” But Natasha only smiled as she interlaced her fingers with Bucky’s listening to Steve’s protective rant. She knew _exactly_ what she was in for, but with James by her side, she couldn’t have cared less.

“What d’you think of _that_ , Mystery Man?” She asked,

“I rather like it, Scarlet Starlet.” He replied, and as he leant in for a kiss, he found that there was no fear, no concern, only relief. They’d tried being subtle, but to no avail. Now they’d flaunted their relationship, plastered it on the internet, and everyone knew about it. His relationship was out for all the world to see, to scrutinise. And you know what?

He couldn’t care less.


	26. Cardinal Gem (Princess or Marquise?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: It's finally here! The premiere of _The Pits: Anarchy_ has arrived. Watch as the parade of stars glide past, and prepare yourselves for the final installment of Caden's adventures. All his choices have led him to this final battle, and soon we shall be privy to see it! In other news, one of the most talk-provoking pictures around the time of the Twitter hack features our own Scarlet Starlet alongside Bucky Barnes, the star of this very franchise. A clever Photoshop, or a long-awaited confirmation of buzzing rumours? We'll be sure to have the answers tonight!

What did an internationally-acclaimed actor have to do to get some attention in this godforsaken city?

Three days had passed since Natasha had posted the picture on her Twitter feed, but all it had done was spark a heated debate in comments’ sections on whether or not it was real or not (apparently there had been some hacking scandal recently, a bunch of celebrities pages had been hacked and plastered with fake tweets and photos by blackhats). Bucky was seriously starting to wonder if the universe was trying to tell him something, if it didn’t want their relationship to be outed.

“The universe doesn’t _want_ anything, James,” Natasha grinned one evening. It was only eight, but they were both thinking of heading off to bed soon (no, not like _that_. Well… not entirely) because in a few days it would be the premiere of _The Pits: Anarchy_ , and it would be a series of very busy and very late nights. As it was currently, they were sprawled on the sofa together, the TV on but neither really watching, more interested in each other and the conversation. It was probably worth mentioning that it was not, in fact, their sofa, their TV or their home; they were at _Barton Farm_ , as Natasha liked to call it, looking after Clint’s brood whilst he took Laura out for her birthday. It had been easy enough to arrange that, since Nat and Bucky were staying with the Bartons for a few days, anyway. Cooper, the eldest and eleven, would be heading off to bed, soon. Lila had been put to bed at seven-thirty, and Nathaniel had been sleeping before Laura and Clint had even left. It had been easy so far, but they were wary of the fact that that could change in split second. Babies were especially temperamental. “You’re just being paranoid.”

“I’m pissed, actually.” He corrected her, “We just decide to let everyone know, to do away with the secrecy, and then we get sidelined, _then_ we get half-spied in a park on some _blog_ , and _then_ when you post a picture everyone thinks it’s fake. You’re telling me that’s not a coincidence.”

“I’m telling you you’re getting worried over nothing.” She replied kindly, “Why are you getting so worked up about this, anyway?”

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, “I dunno.” He admitted, “I guess I’m just… I want the world to know, Natalia. I want them to know and it’s almost like the world doesn’t _want_ to know. Like everyone’s secretly deciding to ignore it or doubt it or…” He trailed off, “I dunno.” He said again.

Natasha smiled and reached up, touching his face lightly, “Don’t get so worked up about it, James,” she said, “I don’t care if they pay attention or not, if they care or not, I just want to stop hiding, so I can show people that I love you and not have to worry about how I behave in public.”

His smile turned rueful, then mischievous, “Like how you _behaved_ at the last post-premiere party?” He inquired lightly, referring, of course, to their impromptu-debauching of one another in one of _The Asgard_ ’s rooms, whilst a whole horde of reporters had been only one floor below them. To say they had a thing for risky situations was an understatement. At the mention of this, Natasha stared at him with open-mouthed horror, and from her curled-up position, burrowed into his side, she leant away a little bit; affronted.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you did _not_ just—That was _your_ fault!” She said indignantly, and Bucky laughed,

“ _My_ fault?” He grinned, “ _You_ were the one who dragged _me_ up to that room.”

“I was _not_.”

“Oh, you _so_ were.” He grinned. “ _And_ you were the one who almost got us caught.” He was now referring to Thor’s ex-girlfriend, Jane, who had been a reporter that Natasha had been less than taken with. The relationship had ended a few months ago, with the pair just… drifting apart. Thor’s current girlfriend was a childhood friend of his, Sif, and Olympic gold-medallist who had eventually become a fight-scene trainer in Hollywood; specialising in swordplay. Natasha scowled at him,

“Again, _not_ my fault.” She said sharply, “ _You_ gave _me_ the hickey.”

“Please,” he gave a lopsided grinned, “Like everything else that happened, you were begging me to.”

“Begging you to hurry the hell up, maybe.” She answered, with perhaps a little more amusement than she’d have liked, but it was annoyingly difficult to stay mad at him.

“Only cause you’re impatient.” He countered smoothly. They were both hopelessly impatient, it was true, but unfortunately, they could both be devilish, devious teases. His hand, which had thus far remained relatively chaste on her ribcage, drifted lower to rest on her hip. She met his gaze evenly to smirk at him.

“ _I’m_ impatient?” She asked, very deliberately taking his hand on her own and lifting it back up to her waist, “Watch yourself, there, James,” she teased, though her tone was serious, “I could easily read for the next half hour, then go straight to bed.” In all honesty that was probably the most likely scenario anyway, considering there were three kids within relative earshot, and only two were asleep.

Bucky turned to her with a doubting grin, “Oh, really?” He asked, then pulled away from her entirely. “Then, by all means. You said it was a good book, anyway.”

The really irritating thing about the pair of them was that they were absolute _shits_ for calling bluffs. Smirking like there was no tomorrow, Natasha stood up from the couch, turned, and began to make her way to their bedroom, with the _full_ intent of sitting on the bed in one of the t-shirts she’d ‘borrowed’ from him, reading, and not moving one muscle until James was literally begging on his knees (he was not above it. It had been proven). Bucky, clearly fearing that alternative and deciding it was better to swallow a little pride now than a lot later (and, yeah, he was impatient as hell, and wasn’t eager to wait around) caught her wrist as she walked past. Natasha turned to him, arching one eyebrow. He resisted the urge to shiver at the chill than ran down his spine from that one tiny movement.

“I thought you said I should go read my book.” She said, her voice light, but he could see the pools in her green eyes, the depths of her enjoyment, her desire. No doubt they were mirrors of his own. His grip on her wrist loosened, hand moving to thread his fingers through hers.

“I lied.” He told her in a low, raw voice. Then he pulled sharply on their interlocked hands, sending her tumbling down to land sprawled atop him. She didn’t even have to think to find his mouth, it was just such a natural reaction that it was second nature, subconscious. His kiss was warm and fierce, and she wondered what had brought on such sudden and potent desire, but she wasn’t going to break it to ask, hell no.

In truth, it was mostly because he could. Because he fell in love with her all over again every time he looked at her, just as she fell in love with him. He was thanking his lucky stars and praying that tomorrow’s premiere went off without a hitch – among other things, it would be their first official outing as a known couple. He was relieved that he’d only lost an arm in that explosion, not his life. He was giddy with gratitude that all their arguments, from the petty spats to the full blowout the previous year, hadn’t pulled them apart, even though it had come dangerously close at one point.

“Aunty Nat?”

They both froze as though they were a movie on pause, and with a speed neither of them really knew they were capable of, they were in their previous position of curled up on the sofa together, very, very chastely (with the addition of Bucky’s arm not resting on her waist or her hip, but along the back of the sofa), watching whatever cartoon the TV had been left on after Lila had gone to sleep. Natasha turned to look over the back of the sofa just as her nephew came down the stairs.

“Cooper,” she said, “Is something wrong?”

The little boy rubbed his eyes sleepily, looking remarkably like Clint, even though the two actually shared no DNA (not that that made him any less of Cooper’s father, nor Cooper any less of Clint’s son). “Naw,” he said around a yawn, which only accentuated the slight drawl he’d picked up from his mother. “Jus’ tired. I’m goin’ to bed now.” He padded over in his Transformers pyjamas and hugged Natasha, letting her kiss his forehead (only Aunty Nat and Mom were allowed to kiss him; all other girls were yucky), “Night, Aunty Nat.” He then reached over to hug Bucky, too – though Bucky didn’t kiss him; they were both too manly for that. “Night, Uncle Bucky.”

“Goodnight.” They echoed back to him, and Cooper went back upstairs, yawning profusely. There were a few second of silence, then they heard his bedroom door shut. Natasha turned to Bucky with barely contained laughter.

“Close call.” She giggled. He turned to her with a flat look that would have appeared entirely unimpressed if not for the slight curl of amusement to his lip. “Maybe it’s best if we just head up to bed.”

Bucky groaned, turning to bury his face into the side of her neck. The arm that had been along the back of the sofa came to curl around her waist, “It’s impossible.” He said, “We’ve been here three days and I swear those kids have some sort of worst-possible-timing superpower.”

“Oh, come on.” She smiled at him, “You love them just as much as I do. And they clearly love you, _Uncle Bucky_.” It was a name that had taken hold only a few months ago. Lila had started it (with a round of cooing and laughter and even more laughter at Bucky’s shocked-and-touched expression) and Cooper had started to pick it up soon after. Cooper, Lila and even Nathaniel-the-traitor, were all like Nat’s own kids. She loved them, she spoiled them rotten, and every time they were within proximity to one another Bucky saw her eyes light up with all the joy of a childhood she herself had never known; she was determined to help give them the best one ever. For someone who had come to this country with nothing but a name, who had no relatives and couldn’t have kids, she had a very large family, and she felt so honoured by that.

“Yeah, I do.” He admitted grudgingly, “But right now I’d rather some _special grown up time_ , sans children if you get what I mean.”

She got his drift. She’d have to be an idiot not to. “Subtle as a brick, like always.” She remarked, rolling her eyes, “Because that plan’s worked so well the _last_ four times.” She added dryly. In the past three days, they’d almost been caught on the sofa, in their bedroom twice – once by nightmares, once by an announcement that dinner was ready – and once in the woods. It had started off as an innocent couple’s picnic just for some fresh air and more adult – not _adult_ – conversation, and, thanks to Lila’s impromptu arrival, had very much stayed that way.

Bucky shrugged, “Can’t blame me for trying.” He said, “Unless you want to try in that half-finished coach-house across the garden.” He jerked his thumb to the front door. The barn on the property (Clint had a _barn_. And chickens. He was such a dork) was home to a tractor that was basically never used, but the top level of it was roomy and cosy enough for Clint to have taken it on as one of his many around-the-house projects (the last half dozen had been sworn “last project, _I promise_ ” and Laura had given up entirely on that ever being actually true) in converting it to a sort of studio-apartment-coach-house- _thing_. So far, he’d reinforced the roof, which had mostly involved fixing leaks, and laid the insulation. There was almost no actual flooring and the only things in there were a handful of broken chairs, the assortment of balls Cooper and Lila had gotten stuck up there and forgotten about, and the mattress that Laura had bought for her and Clint’s bed, only to find it was a half-foot too wide for the bedframe.

Clint had started that particular project less than a week after finishing the previous one, sometime before the previous year’s Thanksgiving. This was a fact Natasha only remembered because, when she and Bucky had come over to share in the celebrations, James had been accompanied by Cooper alone when watching the football; Clint had been up in the barn’s loft, laying down insulation and plugging leaks. In any case, the boys had once again proved completely useless in helping Laura fix the meal. Luckily, Natasha had been there, but she was no cook. Eventually, much of the evening had been passed with Clint up in said loft, and she’d had the splinters to prove it.

“Um, no. Thanks.” She smirked, “That’s not what I mean when I say I like it rough.” She wasn’t sure whether it was a terrible pun or a sensual double-entendre, and judging from James’ mixed reaction, neither was he. He ducked his head and buried his face in the crook of her neck, laughing softly.

“Oh, love, you’ll be the death of me.” He chuckled, his voice low and warm against her skin.

“I try.” She replied coyly, shifting to rest her head atop his. There, they dozed awhile, content with the warmth that the evening had provided. He liked these moments. When he was _Uncle Bucky_ or _James_. He wasn’t some It-Boy, he wasn’t some star. He lived for the screen and doing what he loved, but he detested the sacrifice of privacy that was practically required because of it. He might have tapped out in a drug-crazed tailspin if he’d tried to make it on his own, hadn’t had Steve to ground him and vice-versa. In his whirlwind life of glamour and luxury and fame, he liked when he could slow down for a minute, doze on a couch with his girlfriend, and, just for a couple hours, pretend everything was normal.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Whossat?” Natasha’s voice was slow and lazy. She didn’t even open her eyes, just burrowed into his side a bit more. “Clint?” Despite all their teasing, tiredness had descended very quickly upon them. Babysitting, even for a few hours, was an exhausting feat. She would never understand how Laura and Clint managed it – well, she knew how Clint managed it; he did home projects to get some space for himself, took his wife out for dinner at least once every two months. But Laura? She’d had a deadbeat ex-husband, and then been a single mother. For years, until she’d met Clint. She was the unsung hero in this tale. The woman who had done, managed, and overcome _everything_. Natasha honestly thought of her like a sister. She was too tired to even consider the fact that, if it _was_ Clint or Laura texting, they would’ve messaged her, first.

“Nah,” Bucky replied softly, having pulled his phone out of his back pocket, “Steve.” He blinked a few times, letting the screen come into focus. The text was one line, and he swore softly when he read it.

_Buck, where are you?_

“What?” At the sound of his voice, Natasha was instantly more awake, “Something wrong?”

“No, no.” He promised, “Just a mix-up. No crisis, _Natalia_.” He thumbed the keypad and sent an apologetic reply, denoting his forgetfulness and that it was no big and they could just reschedule. He’d forgotten to tell Steve that he was heading over to Barton’s (between Natasha and Tony they were both pretty tied up, and they didn’t see each other as much as they’d used to, especially considering they didn’t live together anymore). Steve would call him a punk, feign irritation, but it would all be fine. “Just go to sleep, love.” He promised, and she did.

* * *

Natasha and Bucky’s building, where they still had an apartment in case they needed to stay in the city a few nights (mostly during filming months; made commutes easier), also sported an impressive bar on its bottom floor, and catered mostly to the building’s tenants, but also to guests and basically anyone with the right dress code and salary size. Steve, as he did every Friday night these days, arrived at seven-thirty in the lobby, ready for Bucky to come down and they could head out for their Boys’ Night Out, but he was taking longer than usual. Deciding one pre-drink couldn’t hurt, he sidled into the building’s bar and sat down on a swivel stool. He hadn’t been in the bar for a while, and forgotten the stools swivelled, so nearly fell off. Not a roaring start, but luckily no one noticed; it was just him and the bartender, and an old man who looked vaguely familiar (vaguely, but then again, how many men with walrus moustaches and giant glasses _were_ there in this part of town?) reading a comic book that looked about as old as he did.

The bartender was busy stacking shelves with glasses and the like, but heard him sit down and chirped in a bright voice, “ _Goooood_ evening, sir, how may I—Steve?”

At the sound of his name, Steve looked up, and was more than a little surprise to see who the bartender was. He hadn’t recognised her at first; sporting a different uniform to her red pants-and-jacket ensemble, all trimmed in gold. But even though she’d forgone that for a white shirt, red waistcoat and black pants with suspenders, there was a little gold nametag, and there was no mistaking that smile anyway. “Jaime? What’re you doing here?”

“Uh, I work here.” She grinned, raising a confused eyebrow. Steve frowned, raised a hand and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb,

“I… thought you… worked on the door…” He said blankly.

“I do.” She nodded, “But Reggie – he’s the normal barkeep – got in a motorcycle accident, he’s off ‘til November.” She quirked a small, bittersweet smile, “I worked at a bar in college, so my cousin got me to backup until Reggie gets back. Have to say it’s a lot warmer, and the tips’re better, too.” She jerked her head over to a jar on the side of the bar, comfortably full.

“That’s… nice.” Steve said vaguely, a little overwhelmed with all the information. Whilst she was excellent for keeping her mouth shut about important matters, Jaime had a mouth on her that could run a mile-a-minute or make a sailor blush. Only the former was permitted whilst she was in uniform.

“So, what can I get’cha?” She asked, rubbing her hands together. She’d rolled her sleeves back to her elbows, and there was a small tattoo on her inner wrist of an infinity symbol. Underneath, in tiny cursive (Steve had excellent eyesight, and had, when he’d been young and bored, learned how to read upside down) read _this too shall pass_. “I make a mean White Russian.” She prompted, and he wondered if that was a joke.

“Just a beer, thanks.” Steve replied. Jaime shrugged and pulled one up from underneath the bar, twisting the cap with a deft jerk of her wrist and handing it to him. A few minutes passed in silence as he sat there, drinking his drink, and given that Jaime was, well, Jaime, and he was someone she knew well enough to chat with casually, it was surprising she went that long before talking again.

“So’re you waiting for Buck?” She asked, “Or are you trying a 21st-Century-style lone-cowboy thing?” Steve noted absently that Jaime had never gotten into the habit of calling him Buck _y_ , as though the second syllable was an offence, or too much hassle to bother with.

“Waiting for Buck.” He replied, then grinned, “Why, d’you think I could pull it off?”

She laughed, “Hate to break it to you, pal, but you’re too pretty to be a cowboy. Too clean cut. Buck might manage it, if he was in his Caden getup.” She added musingly.

“I’ll tell him that later,” Steve said. He paused, then, “D’you know where he is? He usually remembers guys’ night.”

Jaime thought for a moment, “Dunno, but I can buzz his floor if you want.” She offered, pressing what he supposed was a button underneath the bar. A few seconds later, a brown-haired, long-legged teenager rushed in, wearing the same uniform as Jaime, though it seemed ill-fitting and probably belonged to someone else (it was several inches too short in the sleeves, for one thing). “Pete, buzz 12 would’ya?” The kid nodded and dashed off without so much as a glance in Steve’s direction. If he’d recognised or even _noticed_ Steve, he hadn’t shown it.

There was a few moments’ pause after that, then Jaime jumped as though zapped, “Oh! That reminds me.” She grinned, “Since Buck lives here now – well, _technically_ he lives here. Half the year, at least – he’s eligible to rent the bar out for a party at a reduced rate.” She paused, her grin becoming coy, “Say… for a bachelor party?”

Steve choked on his beer.

After a long fit of coughing, he turned to her, eyes streaming, and asked weakly, “What? Bachelor—what? Bucky doesn’t need to plan a bachelor party.”

“ _Sure_ he doesn’t,” Jaime laughed, “And he didn’t ask me the difference between a princess cut and a marquise, either. Relax, Hicks, I’m not gonna spill the beans. I could make my millions selling the stories in these walls. _But_ , since I’m working two jobs and a nightshift, I think you can guess what I did.”

Steve relaxed a little at that, and smiled. “I guess.” He agreed, and took a drink of beer. “So, what _is_ the difference between a princess cut and a marquise?”

Jaime grinned, “Not a clue. Told him to Google it.”

* * *

The next morning, Natasha and Bucky found themselves being woken by a very grateful Clint and Laura, and were filled with a warm pride and happiness as they were profusely thanked and goodbye-d by the little family of five. As the kids all hugged their Aunt and Uncle goodbye, Laura and Bucky chatted about this and that, and Clint and Natasha’s conversation inevitably turned to business.

Though he was mostly in make-up now, Clint still did small acting parts; things that wouldn’t drag him away from his family for weeks on end. His most recent part had been a one-shot piece for some medical drama; a drug-addict failed punk-rock musician of a patient with seemingly-inexplicable symptoms. At first glance, a lowlife, but the character had been endearing in that he’d snuck out of his room to entertain the kids in the hospital’s paediatric ward. Luckily, he’d been completely cured and let loose on the word to resume his life of having no regrets. It had been a bittersweet episode, from what Natasha garnered (she didn’t watch the show, and neither did Clint), but it was a good part and he’d found the character interesting. If the show ever asked for her, she might just do it. It was nice to be cast for a role that didn’t depend on looking good – Clint had spent most of his scenes looking incredibly ill, sweating profusely, and coughing up blood, or vomiting.

Regardless, it all meant that they could go back to their little farmhouse in the country. With a jolt, Natasha realised the parallel between her and Clint’s houses and laughed out loud, abruptly breaking the silence in the cab. James turned to her, confused and a little concerned.

“You okay?” He asked dubiously, and she nodded, laughing,

“I just realised,” she said, “We have a house in the countryside. A converted barn/farmhouse thing, right? We’re like Clint!” She started giggling again, and this time, James joined in, too.

* * *

So. Third time’s the charm.

It was the third time he was getting ready for a _Pits_ premiere, the biggest and most anticipated yet. He was dressed to impress (yes, it was the same suit as last time, but he looked good in it, he liked the silvery shirt and the red star on the shoulder, and he knew Natasha loved it. That, especially, was important) and groomed to drop jaws. He;d even donned the Caden prosthetic for the occasion - not that he didn't already wear it pretty much all the time, because he was, in Natasha's words, a huge dork. But he was clean-shaven, he’d cut his hair, combed it back like a 40s gentleman, and he’d donned his best smirk-smile, so he made his girlfriend weak at the knees and they both knew it. She was, as ever, stunning in a long black dress that shimmered like starlight, her hair cascading in silky curls, all smoky eyes and mysteriousness. This was their first ‘big’ outing since officially announcing their relationship, and with a bit of luck, Hollywood would actually pay some attention to it, and this awful limbo-waiting period would _end already_.

She had a silvery shawl over her shoulders in case it got a little colder, but he’d offer his jacket before that happened, and they both knew it. For the sake of appearance (and also because they kind of wanted to keep their countryside residence semi-secret, they’d travelled up to the apartment earlier in the day before getting ready, and the limo was picking them up at the front.

Wrapping her hand around his bicep (his left one; they were so comfortable with each other he was surprised he’d ever thought one-night stands would be enough to fulfil him. This simple closeness, familiarity, was what he lived for) and gave a winning smile. “Once more unto the breach, James?” She challenged.

“Onwards and upwards.” He replied jauntily.

The kid on the door wasn’t the grinning Jaime they were used to, but a very tall, lanky, and somewhat nervous (read: _starstruck_ ) kid who really didn’t look any more than fifteen. He was almost vibrating with either nervousness or awe or excitement as he pulled open the door for them, hardly daring to look at them, let along make eye contact. Bucky half wondered if the kid – seeing his nametag, he saw it read _Peter_ – was going to faint when Natasha said, “Thank you.” That was probably part of the reason why she did it.

Outside, there was a car waiting, and when they slid inside, all class and suaveness, Steve and Tony were already there, looking dashing in tuxedos. Steve had once more opted for a dark navy, and Stark was ostentatious as always in hot-rot red and a pair of sunglasses that made no sense when it was getting dark.

“Ah, the radiant and ever-unspotlighted couple.” Stark grinned when they sat down. He simply oozed confidence, if not by his state of dress then his posture. He sat sprawled across his seat, knees parted, his hand around Steve’s shoulders, his other hand resting loosely in his lap, when he wasn’t thumbing his phone and chattering to Jarvis or Pepper or Happy or any other of his numerous staff-slash-friends-slash-family.

“And the never-amusing Mr Stark,” Natasha tossed back lightly, making Bucky chuckle. Tony pouted and looked to his boyfriend,

“Natasha’s being mean to me.” He whined. Steve made a noise of sympathy and rubbed his knee affectionately,

“Just ignore the mean lady,” he joked, then turned back to Nat, “How’re you two doing?” He asked, and he earned a pointed half-stare-half-glare from Bucky for the not-at-all subtle wording of the question. He’d trusted Jaime with his secret, though he supposed it was only to be expected that she’d tell Steve. She was _good_ at keeping her mouth shut, she wasn’t a saint, and she’d become almost another member of their little friendship circle over the years.

“Going a bit stir crazy, so I suppose a night on the town is welcome.” Natasha replied with a shrug. Either she didn’t notice his obviousness, or chose to ignore it.

“Hence; champagne.” From seemingly nowhere (but of course, all his cars were equipped with only the finest alcohol) Stark had pulled a bottle of champagne and a few glasses. Thus began the process of sharing it out, and they toasted to Caden, Hicks, Jericho and Shayera (partly).

“It’s strange to think,” Tony said, swirling his champagne around in his glass, “None of us would be here if not for Caden and his little rebellion.” He glanced to Bucky, “You wouldn’t have met Nat.” To Steve, “You wouldn’t be dating the second-hottest piece of ass ever to grace this earth.” He grinned.

“ _Second_ -hottest?” Bucky asked, sipping his own drink. Stark laughed,

“C’mon, Buchanan, you and Spangles grew up together, surely you saw his ass at least once?” He asked around a smile. Bucky rolled his eyes,

“Another semi-sweet moment, ruined by you and your filthy little mind.”

“My mind is not filthy!” He said indignantly. Steve barked a laugh, and put his lips to Tony’s ear.

“We both know that’s a lie.” He said softly, making Tony blush – something he’d grown increasingly proficient at. Natasha watched them flirt and laugh together, and decided that Stark was right. It was all due to the films that any of them were who and where they were right now. There was a chance she would’ve met James, since she’d already been a friend of Steve’s. Frankly, it was absurd she hadn’t met him before she had, but between her always going to Clint’s for holidays, and her and Steve not talking as much when they were both so busy, it was, at least, excusable.

But how could she know that he would’ve kissed her? That she would’ve found the courage to give him her number, to tell him about her past, to dance for him? Of a thousand-thousand possibilities how many ended up with the pair of them like this? Together?

And Steve, too. Without meeting Stark, establishing a playful repartee, would he have condemned himself to hiding what was such a fundamental part of his being? Peggy had been there for Steve almost as long as James had been, and they’d helped one another find their true selves. For that, Natasha had never been able to thank her enough. She had met the pair of them in college, after running away from Petrovich with enough money to give herself a higher education and a shot at something better. She’d found a home, too, in an orphan circus brat, and he’d been the first one to introduce her to the world of film. She’d been entranced by it, worked harder than hard, gotten into the California Institute of the Arts, spent her stolen money on the best course. She’d barely been handed her diploma before being given her first big role, the _Scarlet Widow_ , and that had been that.

She very much owed her life to Clint, and Steve, and Peggy, and Stark, and James perhaps most of all. All of them had shaped her, guided her towards this very moment, where everything was perfect. She was a cynical creature at heart, was sure it wouldn’t last because no moment ever did. But she was determined to enjoy it, this snapshot of perfection with her family of sorts. She was blessed, to have her brother, her sister in law and her niece and nephews. To have her friends, even the begrudging, philanthropic ones. To have her James, the man who’d saved her from the past and the darkness, simply by making small talk, and by reminding her to take a lunch break.

She raised her own glass a fraction, made a silent toast to all the infinite moments and choices that had led her here. She gave her thanks to each and every one of them, and drank to an infinite more.


	27. Scarlet Starlet (Off The Market)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: OMG!! Guess who's just revealed their _delicious_ romance!! That's right, people! Natasha "Scarlet Starlet" Romanoff and Bucky Barnes have officially spilled their beans! The two are dating and they are OH-SO-CUTE! Turn to page 4 for more details, including pictures of the photo posted by Romanoff herself! We'll want AAALLL the details on their upcoming press-tours for _The Pits: Anarchy_ \- which, if the rumours are true, is going to be the best one yet! Critics are going crazy for this third and (possibly) final installment in Caden's adventure. Dare we say Oscars? But who cares right now! Turn to page 4 for all the goodies on our new favourite power-couple!

“So, tell me more about this boy-toy of yours.” Matt said, stretching out under the duvet. He was sore in all the right ways, the room comfortably warm, that he didn’t feel the need to scramble to put on clothes, as he often did in the winter time, or when he was alone.

“He’s not my _boy-toy_ , Matt.” Natasha rolled her eyes, turning to sit on the edge of the bed and set about finding her clothes. He didn’t need to see her to know she was still a bit high strung, so reached up a hand and stroked her back. It was a gesture he reckoned no one offered – then again, they both knew that neither of them were exactly players, hence these monthly visits – but he knew it calmed her, and it was something just the two of them had.

“Stay,” he said quietly, “At least a while. You don’t have to go right now.”

She turned to him over her shoulder, the light of the setting sun highlighting the curve of her cheek, the line of shoulder, the column of her neck. Not that he saw any of it; only the vague redness of his World on Fire. Maybe that was why she liked him. She was revered for being beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. But he couldn’t see that, couldn’t see any of that. He’d fallen for her because of her mind, her heart, not her looks. There was something infinitely precious about that. He brushed the back of his hand down her spine gently. She smiled, pretending to consider it. She knew he knew she was pretending.

“Well, if you _insist_.” She sighed, shuffling back under the covers to curl into his side. “The sheets are new,” she remarked, running her hand over the smooth silk. “For me, or your heightened senses?” She joked. He laughed softly,

“Do they have to be mutually exclusive?” He countered. She smiled, they really were exquisite; soft and silk. He only bought the finest, for obvious reasons. “Now, back to this _other man_ of yours.”

“Other man would imply I already have a man, Matthew,” she said coyly. “And here I thought we were just friends, helping each other out.” She pouted even though he wouldn’t see it, and danced her hand across his abdomen. He laughed; he didn’t have to say he wasn’t jealous, they both knew he wasn’t, just as she wouldn’t have been jealous if that nurse of his had come back. Honestly, she’d be glad for him. This was fun and all, but it was only ever going to be temporary solution.

“Fine,” he conceded, the arm around her stroked her shoulder lightly. He was very tactile, she’d noticed. In all the _fun_ ways, too. Maybe it was just to remind himself that she was still there. At any rate, she liked it. “So, tell me about Bucky Barnes.”

She grinned into his side, appalled at herself. “Oh god,” she groaned, “I’m like a schoolgirl, it’s _ridiculous_.”

“I think its sweet.” He mused, “I’ve never seen you act like this about anyone before. And I’ve known you almost as long as Clint has.” That was true. They’d met almost as soon as she’d arrived in America, both eighteen and alone in the world, never mind their college lives. Soon, they’d become closer than blood, and she’d met Matt only two years later when he’d been on a trip to California as part of a law placement for his degree. Sparks had flown, and whilst they’d eventually fizzled out, the friendship and almost unnerving comfortableness around one another most certainly hadn’t.

“And yet the two of you still don’t get on.” She remarked. “I still don’t understand that.” He chuckled,

“Don’t change the subject,” he warned playfully. “This Bucky guy… you like him?”

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. He couldn’t see the gesture, but they knew each other well enough to know that he’d sense it, in a way. “Why do you care?” She asked,

“Hey, can’t a guy vet his friend’s crush?” He asked, “I wanna know what he’s like, what you like about him.”

“You _know_ him. He’s one of your clients.”

“Yeah, but I wanna know what _you_ like about him.” He insisted. “And I don’t think I’m gonna get that information by looking over a case about a stalker cleaning-lady.” Natasha sighed, but conceded,

“Fine.” She said, “Uh… he’s cute, for one thing. Absolutely _gorgeous_. Dark hair, brown eyes…” she paused, smirked, “Seems like I have a type. And he’s sweet. Always… comes over to me during filming, likes to chat, make sure I eat my lunch.”

“Good.” He said, “You work so hard you forget to eat. I’m glad he notices that.”

She made a _tss_ sound, half amusement and half mild irritation, “You know I’ve gotten a lot better at that recently.”

“Thanks to him?” He queried, raising his eyebrows in completely-unconvincing mildness. “Seriously, though, I got a good vibe when I met him… glad that I wasn’t wrong.”

She laughed, “You, Matt Murdock, have possibly the best judge in character I know.” She said matter-of-factly. There was a long pause, and she rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, his slow, deep breathing. “So, for obvious reasons,” she said, in a soft voice so as to not disturb the calm around them, “I think we should stop seeing each other. Like this, at least.”

“Optimistic.” He noted brightly, “I would’ve thought you’d at least wait until he asked you on a date.” He rubbed her shoulder again, paused thoughtfully. “You’re really serious about this guy, aren’t you?” He said softly.

“I don’t want to screw this up, Matt.” She replied, “I really, _really_ don’t. And, as fun as this is,” she quirked a smile, “I don’t want to take any chances.”

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Nat,” he promised her, “I stopped seeing you like this when I met Claire. I’m the one who suggested it again after she left.” Claire had signed up for a year-long outpost to Africa, helping out as a volunteer in underequipped hospitals. They had agreed to break up, rather than try long-distance, which would ultimately end in someone being disappointed, but had also promised to try again if they were both single when she got back. In a way, him and Natasha seeing one another like this was a way to guarantee said single-ness. On his part, at least.

Natasha turned so her chin was resting on his sternum, and smiled up at him. That he _did_ see. She was close enough, and in his eyeline just right. He could _just_ make it out, in his world on fire. How appropriate, he thought, that she was red-headed.

He grinned back; something about seeing her smile just… it made him happy. Natasha was often so sad, and so private. He didn’t know the secrets of her life before she’d come to America. Never asked; he could tell she wasn’t the sort to reveal those things, and that was fine. He had his own past, his own secrets. They didn’t talk about their pasts; they respected the past, remembered it, but they didn’t live in it. It wasn’t in either of their natures.

“I almost wish I loved you.” She told him, “It would be so much easier.”

“I suppose,” he admitted, “But what’s the fun in easy?” He teased her, raising a hand to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. “And what if you end up loving this Bucky guy? Love triangles are boring clichés, I remember you telling me once.”

She smirked up at him, “Using my own words against me. How could you!” She raised a hand to her forehead like a damsel, “Probably just as well we don’t love each other, Murdock. It would only end in heartbreak.”

He laughed at that. Laughed at the poor joke and the fact it was a lie. Friendship, family, romance, and whatever it was they had, it was all the same; a variation of the desire to know someone, to be known, to comfort and to seek comfort. He loved her, and he knew she did; for someone who guarded her heart so closely, she loved so deeply. He liked to think he was the only one who really noticed this, and maybe he was – for now. But if Bucky Barnes was worth a tenth of the affection Natasha had for him, he’d better notice it, too. Or, blind or no, he’d have the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen to answer to.

So, he kissed the top of her head, and mumbled into her hair, “You’re a good friend, Nat. Bucky’s a lucky guy.”

“And Claire’s a lucky girl.” She replied, smiling at him. “I’m glad we’re friends, you and I.” She then pushed herself away from him, sliding out from under his sublime silk sheets and searching for her clothes. As she shimmied her panties up her legs, he handed her bra over, having found it looped around the bedpost.

“Same time next month?” He asked, and she laughed,

“Definitely.” She replied, fastening her bra, “There’s a cute little café down the road, I spotted it today, wanna go there for lunch?”

“Sounds like a plan.” He agreed, still languishing in bed and showing no signs of getting up any time soon. Why should he? It was his home. “And hey, if you and Bucky get together, I wanna meet him.”

“You’ve already met him.” She pointed out, having located her t-shirt and pulling it over head. “How about you introduce me to Claire, first? She sounds lovely.” One problem with Matt’s apartment, he didn’t own a mirror, so she settled for a weak reflection in the window to make sure her hair was semi-decent.

“Touché,” he admitted, “But I have yet to meet Bucky in a social context, I’m his lawyer.”

“You’re _my_ lawyer!” She exclaimed, pulling on her jeans and beginning the hunt for her scarf. She spied it still tied around Matt’s wrist.

“Touché…” Matt sighed again, pulling at the knot around his wrist. It took him a minute, not because he was blind, but because Natasha was annoyingly good at knots. She could’ve been a girl scout. “But I still haven’t met him socially. I don’t know about you, but this counts as pretty social – unless you sleep with all your business associates.” He smirked.

“Only the cute blind ones.” She tossed back airily, throwing in a wink he probably wouldn’t catch, but as ever, he would sense, because he knew her. “But I’ll make you a deal. You introduce me to Claire, I’ll ‘ _introduce_ ’—” She made air quotes, “—you to James, we’ll make a double date of it.”

He grinned at her from the bed, “I’ll allow it.” He said in that lawyer voice of his, that she found _so cheesy_. But she loved him, so she walked over and grabbed the scarf, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“See you next month, Devil.” She smiled, and as he always did when she called him that, he laughed and replied,

“See you next month, Starlet.”

* * *

She didn’t know why her thoughts turned to that evening, but they did. Back when her relationship with James had been a world of possibilities; new experiences and fears and wonders. She hadn’t seen Matt in ages, regrettably, but there was little sense in inviting him to the premiere of a movie. She’d make time in the slump; after all the interviews and such were over, she’d hop over to Hell’s Kitchen, quiz him about Claire, probably listen to him rant about a guy he was defending in court, this Frank Castle person – or as the papers had called him, _The Punisher_. He was part of a group of individuals who were connected to Clairvoyant, or more accurately, connected to sabotaging it (a more local member of the same group was some guy in downtown LA, whom the locals called the _Ghost Rider_. She wouldn’t be lying if she hadn’t thought they made a great story of fighting back against oppression and fearmongering. Maybe she’d write a screenplay).

Some viewed them as heroes (herself included, frankly), others viewed them as just another bunch of terrorists. Matt didn’t like them all that much; their methods were too extreme – of course, she knew first hand that he was hardly soft. Gentle, sweet, and kind beyond words, but not soft. He liked to rant to her, get things off his chest. She liked to do the same, and liked to listen. So rarely did the Devil spit any fire. She knew inklings of his past the way he knew bits of hers. She knew he’d never been able to let go of injustices at court, that he’d once or twice (or a whole lot more) snuck out at night to deliver his own justice when some scumbag who hit his wife or preyed on little kids slipped the noose of the justice system.

Matt, she supposed, was as integral to who she was as Clint and the others were, and maybe that was why that night in particular came to her. He was one of very few people from whom she’d never had to hide. They were bruising honest with one another, always had been, and that was probably why she viewed him as something of a brother.

 _Ew, no. Not a brother._ She backtracked. _But… something. Something important._

“Uh, Nat?” Someone was saying her name. “Nat.” Still saying it, she looked up, dragged out of her thoughts, and saw James smiling at her. James. So beautiful, so strong. “Y’alright, Natalia? You spaced out there for a moment.”

“Lost in thought.” She promised him, “This is a big night; long time coming. I was… reminiscing.” She looked out of the tinted window, “We’re nearly there?”

“Nearly.” He confirmed, kicking Steve in the shin lightly; he’d gotten distracted by murmuring sweet nothings into his boyfriend’s ear. “Hey, lovebirds,” he grinned, “We’re gonna be arriving in a moment, might wanna put your hands back somewhere PG-13.”

“Spoilsport.” Stark muttered under his breath, but obliged. Steve had a crimson stripe across his nose. “You ready for this, Red? After all that stuff online?”

Natasha smiled at him, a challenging glint in her eye, “Bring it on.” She smiled determinedly, taking Bucky’s hand. He ducked his head,

“You sure?” He said, taking her hand in his own. “All those people. The film, the photo… they’re gonna be all over the both of us, and not in a fun way. You sure you’re ready?”

She smiled up at him. Radiant, confident, sure of herself in a way she’d never been before. “Of course I am, James.” She replied, raising their hands to plant a soft kiss on his knuckle, “I have you.” She did. She had him, and he had her, and that was all she needed. She’d known that, dazed and injured and lying in rubble, that as long as she had James, everything would be okay.

And they stepped out into the pandemonium, calm and sure. They could brave the torrent of camera flashes and questions, the microphones and lenses shoved in their faces, and bear it all with dazzling smiles. Because they were together, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

“ _People running wild today as articles concerning the premiere of_ The Pits: Anarchy _roll out onto the newsstands, stay tuned for coverage of last night’s events, including exclusive interview with_ Avengers Studios _executive Mr Philip Coulson_ —” Natasha turned the TV off with a sigh, lolling her head back to rest on the back of the sofa. It’d been a long night. Wonderful, of course. Seeing all her friends again – Fitzsimmons had even made it up from their little cottage in England, she’d barely seen them since rolling out their eponymous feature. There was still call for a sequel, but she reckoned it was a strong standalone, and should remain that way.

And, of course, a complete reunion of the entire cast. Clint and Laura there, for the first time taking Cooper and Lila with them – and the cameras had absolutely _adored_ the pair of them, but who wouldn’t when they were that cute?

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, walking out of their bedroom in a pair of jeans and probably nothing else. He was drying his hair with a hand-towel, probably going to make his stupid joke— “Just as well this thing isn’t a _hands_ towel, right?” _Goddammit, James_ , she thought, but didn’t have the energy to for much more than a soft moan of reproach.

“Four months, and it’s still not funny.” She muttered, “God, I’m _exhausted_. Last night took it out of me more than I thought it would.”

He huffed an overdramatic sigh. “You used to talk about me that way…” He said wistfully, gazing off into the distance. Natasha then found she did have energy; just enough to throw one a small pillow at his head. He laughed, deflecting it with his hand towel, and sitting down beside her – on her left side, so he could loop his arm around her shoulders.

“I can’t believe it’s over.” She said mildly, “Four years of work, and its finally _done_ …”

“Congratulations to you.” He said, entirely sincerely, “Another feather in that cap of yours. And you and I can finally focus on… _other things_.” He wiggled his eyebrows. She managed a laugh, and tilted her head back.

“Just… climb on top of me right here and have your way with me.” She groaned, genuinely not able to offer anything more active. “I’m too tired.”

“Thanks, but I prefer a little more participation.” He muttered with a slight grimace. Then he smiled, jumping to his feet, “How about breakfast?”

“ _God_ , how do you have any energy?”

“Part of my charm, _Natalia_.” He grinned, “Dazzling mind, snakelike reflexes—”

“Astounding modesty.” She muttered.

“—and endless stamina.” He winked at her more than a little suggestively, but considering he was walking around their shared house, and shirtless to boot, there was really no point in being coy. “All wrapped up in _this_ drop-dead gorgeous excuse of a package.” He struck a ridiculous pose that actually managed to make her laugh, despite her fatigue. He grinned, pleased with his efforts, “ _So_ , how about breakfast?”

“Oh, James, please no.” She murmured, “You’ve only got one arm, you’d burn the house down. Be lazy like me. Besides, I don’t want to feel like a useless lump.”

He laughed, “You’re not a lump.” He told her, a mischievous glint in his eye. “More of a—”

“Finish that sentence and I’m dumping you.” She warned him. He laughed, but close his mouth, instead opting to nuzzle her neck.

“Why don’t we go have a nap?” He offered, “A _real_ nap, don’t worry. Then a fun one afterwards.” He kissed her neck, half sweet, half seductive. She purred under his touch, maybe putting it on a bit.

“I like that idea.” She replied, turning to kiss him, something slow and tender and very indicative of how completely exhausted she was; absolutely no effort on her part. “Much better than breakfast.”

“Hope they put that on my grave.” He joked, “ _Here lies Bucky Barnes. He was much better than breakfast_.”

“No, that’s not what it’ll say.” She told him, “ _Here lies_ James _Barnes_.” She corrected,

“Oh, gee, thanks.” He rolled his eyes, “Now, are we gonna nap here, or are you gonna move to the soft king-sized bed approximately twenty feet from here?”

“Can’t you carry me?” She whined,

“I _could_ ,” he admitted, “But if you wanna play out that fireman fantasy of yours again, at least let me get the plastic hat—”

“Alright, _fine._ ” She cut across abruptly. It was a valid point, though. Even with his prosthetic arm, he was advised against lifting weights greater than about sixty pounds as it might damage the internal workings or rip it right off of his shoulder – even with the strap under his right arm that made him look like he was wearing medieval shoulder-plating. So, fireman carry was the only sort of lift he could offer. “Just once, could you say _no_ instead of some convoluted answer?”

He paused, seemingly in thought, and stroked his chin for good measure. “No.” He replied, making her throw her hands up in exasperation. But she didn’t object when he followed her back to their bedroom, and she was as eager as always to snuggle up next to him, his arm around her shoulders, like an anchor, or a shield, maybe. It didn’t matter, as long as he was beside her, as she was beside him. It was all too easy to rest her head on his shoulder, and fall asleep to the gentle thrum of his heartbeat.

* * *

Later, she found out why he’d so easily let her sleep. When she woke, it was five in the evening. His side of the bed was empty, but still quite warm; he’d only been up a few minutes, surely, and she could hear his voice in the main room before she opened her eyes.

“…okay, cool.” He was saying, the floorboards creaking as he walked around. He was a restless caller. “Yup, down there for eight-thirty, I think. Maybe nine. Booked under Barnes.”

“James…” She muttered, “Who’s on the phone?”

“Huh?” Clearly, he was caught off guard. “Uh, Just Steve, Nat.” He replied after a moment.

“Oh.” She said, “Tell him hi from me.”

“Nat says hi.” He relayed, “Anyway, thanks for the update. Bye.” He walked back into the bedroom shortly after that, replacing the phone in its receiver on the nightstand. Putting one knee up on the mattress, he leant down and kissed her gently, “Have a good nap?” He asked her.

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded lazily, snuggling further into the warm sheets. “I could stay here all day.”

He chuckled, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid you can’t.” He said, “We only have two weeks before the film’s released and this is the only day we don’t have some sort of interview.”

“So?” She asked,

“ _So_ , you and me’re going out with the guys.” He grinned at her, “A little get together, something to celebrate in private. Close friends, no cameras.”

“Oh, really?” She looked a little more interested, “So, does that mean no fun nap? Because I need to shower, get dressed, do my make-up, my _hair_ —”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He said calmly, “You’ll look perfect no matter what. We have to be down there at eight-thirty, so you have four hours. That enough?” He honestly had no idea if it was. Women, in all their glorious mystery, could take anything from half an hour to five to get ready for various things. She cocked her head, then nodded.

“I guess.” She decided, “But I’m holding you to your promise of a fun nap.” She jumped up and marched towards the bathroom, “You wanna join me?” His grin must have betrayed something because she laughed and rolled her eyes, “I need to get _ready_ , James, no chance.”

He shrugged as if to say _can’t blame me for trying_. Then, “I’ll join you in a minute, just need to check something.”

She nodded and headed into the bathroom. Soon there was the sound of the shower running, and Natasha humming a Russian lullaby to herself. He loved that sound. But he so rarely heard it. She never did it if she thought anyone – even himself – could hear it. She was so rarely so at ease to let herself reminisce of the few childhood memories she held dear. If she was feeling especially nostalgic and rose-tinted, she’d sing the lyrics in delicate, operatic Russian. She amazed him, sometimes. How she could laugh and speak and cry his name and curse him to hell and back. And how she could sing.

Sticking one hand in his jacket pocket, he checked. Satisfied, he pulled off his t-shirt, and went to join her in the shower, maybe holding back a few seconds more so he could hear the sound of her lullaby just a few extra moments. She would have made a wonderful mother, he thought. Even if she didn’t want kids. Even if she couldn’t have them. He’d seen her with Cooper and Lila, doting on them, spoiling them rotten, taking them on adventures whenever her busy schedule would allow, and she wasn’t too exhausted to reconsider (which took a _lot_ ). She loved them like her own, because in a way they _were_ her own. Clint was her brother. Cooper and Lila her niece and nephew.

Maybe, one day in the future, maybe she’d decide she did want kids. Maybe he’d be in agreement, and maybe they’d adopt some small child with no home and no family – a child like what Natalia had been, before Petrovitch had found her. And maybe they’d be able to give that kid a home.

And if not, well, just Natasha was more than enough for him. Natasha with her sharp wit and her stone determination and her heart that felt so much and her demeanour that hid most of it. Her laughter like bells pealing, her eyes like emeralds, her endless adoration for Clint and Laura and their kids, her singing like an operatic lullaby.

* * *

In the restaurant – which just so happened to be _Soldat D’Hiver_ (they’d revisited it a few times since that first night, but not as much as they would’ve liked) – there was something of a small crowd waiting.

Not of paparazzi, though, of friends. With their near-ridiculous earnings, even despite what they gave to charities and Bucky’s family (“ _No_ , mom, I don’t care. I have more than I know what to do with. Just take it.” / “Relax, Becks, I’ll never spend it all. I’m not gonna let you scrape by on student funding if I can afford to help you out.”), it was nothing to rent the restaurant out for the night and provide an air of calm and closeness. And maybe just a bit super-over-indulgent. He’d had to book a month in advance to ensure he wouldn’t be kicking anyone out for the night.

The table was nothing short of huge. There were two empty seats left; the guests of honour, so to speak, and they were adjacent to each other. Next to one of them was Steve, on his immediate right, Anthony, then Peggy and finally Thor. Next to the other empty seat was Clint, and on his immediate left was Laura. Next to her was Lila, then Cooper. Next to Cooper was Matt Murdock (Steve thought it was a bit odd that his lawyer was here, but since he used to date Nat, he supposed it _kinda_ made sense), then Jaime (who looked confused, awed and honoured to simply be there). Next to her was Thor, making complete the circle of eleven – twelve if you counted Nathaniel, in a high chair between his mother and sister.

Steve was not currently sat in his seat, instead watching at the window. His phone buzzed, and a few moments later, a car pulled up on the street. He turned to the others, “Guys, they’re here.” He announced. The restaurant was designed as such that it was square – at least, the public area was, and the kitchen was tacked onto the back corner. The bar was in the middle of the square, but only accessible by two sides; one facing the restaurant’s front. The back and one of the sides was plain wall, and the large table was on the other side of the plain wall, thus completely obscured from the front. One had to walk the length of the restaurant into one of the bottom corners to see the table and anyone sat there. Tonight, this was by design.

A sort of hush fell over the others, the air crackling, almost, with the anticipation. They heard the door open, the waiter saying, “Good evening, sir, what name are you booked under?” As if he didn’t already know. Bucky answered, “Ah, of course, right this way, sir.” And everyone was deadly silent. The waiter emerged a few feet ahead, then Bucky and Nat, then,

“ ** _SURPRISE!_** ”

Nat, though she’d been aware they wouldn’t be alone, hadn’t been expecting _this_ , and shrieked. This brought a round of laughter, and thanks to Laura having the presence of mind to cover Nathaniel’s ears, the sounds weren’t loud enough to startle him to tears. Natasha turned to Bucky and swatted him on the arm.

“You could have given me a heart attack!” She exclaimed indignantly. “You… _dork!_ ” She cried, only because there were children present. “What is this?”

“I told you, it’s a celebration.” He grinned, and Steve stood to offer them their places,

“Yeah,” he agreed, if only to ensure his best friend wasn’t killed, “A group of close friends, just celebrating _Caden_ coming to an end.” Jaime fought the urge to raise her hand and ask why she was here.

Calmly enough, Natasha sat, as did Bucky, and they began making conversation and general merriment. Natasha chatted with Clint and Laura, Cooper and Lila bickered, Jaime tried not to gush to the famous celebrities and looked for appropriate times to ask for autographs, and Thor challenged Anthony and Steve to a drinking competition, which Bucky very quickly ducked out of, because he’d need his wits about him for later on.

Dinner was exquisite, and as the night went on, Nat’s hand began to creep more frequently onto Bucky’s thigh, and steadily higher, until he was eventually squirming in his seat. Steve either didn’t notice or didn’t say, but Anthony was as observant as he was loudmouthed, and sent more than a few lewd comments Bucky’s way.

Cooper and Lila stopped arguing at their parents’ insistence somewhere around the end of the main course, and Cooper promptly began chattering to Matt about all things archery. He’d found a liking for the sport and had even made a friend who went to an archery club with him; some girl called Kate. Laura had banned Clint from making _girlfriend_ jokes to their son, not wanting to discourage the friendship on grounds of _girls are yucky!_ Considering she was responsible for most of his livelihood and his three children, he had meekly agreed. As for the near-incessant chattering, Matt was good with kids, though, and didn’t mind in the slightest.

“So, young one, how do you know Natasha? I do not recognise you from any of her films.” Thor was pontificating. He was starting to slip. Anthony let out a slurred giggle and a weak _I’m winning, Spangles!_ Jaime cringed,

“I… uh… I’m the doorman.” She muttered, not looking at him. She’d been shocked that Bucky had even thought to invite her, but hadn’t wanted to appear rude and turn it down. Now she was wishing she had; a bellhop amongst internationally famed actors and actresses, what was she _doing?_

“A doorman?” Thor echoed, “Interesting.” To her immense surprise, it didn’t sound derogatory, and she dared to look up at him. He smiled – he had a remarkably kind smile, for such a large man – and she actually smiled back.

“Yeah, I guess.” She shrugged, “I actually met Buck when he picked up Natasha for their first date.” She smiled at the memory. Thor laughed,

“I hosted the event at which they first courted.” He told her, then, “I also hosted an event that saw one of the rooms completely debauched. ANOTHER!” He held up his glass and announced his impending thirst to the bar. The waiter scurried around to grab the beer mug and refill it. “So, is that why you’re here?”

“She’s here because she did Buck a solid.” Steve leant over the table, and grinned at her, “Do you know the difference between a princess cut and a marquise?” At this, Bucky kicked him – violently – under the table. Luckily, Natasha was in too deep conversation with Laura to notice. This didn’t stop Steve from yelping and turning to his boyfriend with a mournful expression. Anthony, starting to get really drunk, babbled something that sounded consolatory and put an arm around Steve’s shoulders. With his other hand, he held up two fingers as though making air-quotes and made a sort of hissing-click noise. Bucky was more weirded out than intimidated, but it was enough to make him back off.

By the time dessert rolled around, Peggy had ordered Thor to swap places with her (“ordered” being a strong word as he was in an exceedingly good mood, for one thing) and had fallen into deep conversation with Jaime about a small part in her new film. She had also participated in the boys’ little drinking competition, and with all her phlegmatic English cool, was barely affected. Anthony was practically rolling on the floor. Thor was singing high merriment with Steve, and an over-hyper Cooper and Lila had joined in, and Clint had long-since given up trying to calm them, instead playing with Nathaniel to give Laura a break. She was chatting with Matt about planning permission for a coach-house in-between grilling about this nurse she had heard so much about from Natasha, and Bucky and Natasha leant in close to one another and murmured about the evening.

“It seems everyone’s having a good time.” She noted, sounding amused and endeared.

“They are.” He agreed, “A little loud, though. Wanna step outside for a breather?”

Natasha nodded, readily, and followed as he stood from his seat. Steve, still singing loudly, noticed this and did absolutely nothing to suggest he had, other than throwing a wink in Bucky’s direction when he looked back over his shoulder, looking terrified as he and Nat walked outside.

The _Soldat D’Hiver_ had a small garden of sorts, ideal for dining in the summer. It was a warm evening, just beginning to turn cool, and the sun had set, leaving the garden to be bathed in soft light from the windows and the possibly-thousands of fairy-lights strewn throughout the flora.

“It’s beautiful out here.” Natasha remarked. With no one else in the garden, there was a serenity to it, something gentle. A stark contrast to the inside of the restaurant, where all her friends were, not to say that that was unpleasant. She was surprised by how big a family she’d found herself with. A brother, a sister-in-law. Two nephews and a niece. A best friend, wonderful colleagues, and a boyfriend nicer than she’d ever thought herself deserving of.

“It is.” He agreed, looking around, “Moon’s nice tonight.” He pointed upwards, and it was. A thin sickle shape, he could almost see someone sitting on it and watching the night below. “D’you wanna sit down.”

“No, I’ve been sitting all night.” She said, “I could stretch my legs.” So they wandered around, chatting idly, until Bucky pulled her gently, and she stopped.

“Hey, um, Nat?” He said carefully. She turned to him with a curious expression.

“Yeah?” She asked, “Is everything alright?”

“No, yeah, everything’s fine.” He promised her quickly, “I just…” He inhaled, “You… you know I love you, right?”

She smiled, “Of course I do.” She replied, “You know I love you, too, right?”

“Obviously.” He said, quirking a smile, “How could you not, I’m amazing. But… I’ve been thinking lately, and… I don’t think I say it enough.”

“What—” She began, but he raised his hand, a plea.

“Wait.” He said, sounding almost desperate. “Please, wait until I’m done because I need to get this out in one piece.” Looking confused, and more than a little concerned, she nodded, and didn’t say a word.

“Nat, I love you more than I thought I could love someone who wasn’t my family.” He told her, “When I was in high-school and college… I was a punk. I never really had any relationships, not ones that lasted more than a few months anyway. I guess I’d learned to think that love wasn’t like the movies. And it’s not. They say it’s wonderful and perfect and easy. And it _is_. Wonderful and perfect, sure, but it’s not easy. It’s… it’s freaking hard work!” He exclaimed, gasping a laugh, “And I think the last two years with you have been possibly the most difficult of my life – for varying reasons—” He raised his left arm, “—but they’ve also been the best because they’ve had you in them. But I don’t think I tell you that enough. How much I love you, how much I care about you, how much I just… I like _being_ with you. So… this is me. Saying it.”

He’d actually made her cry. _Damn him_. She thought, dabbing at the corners of her eyes and trying not to ruin her make-up or the moment. “Oh… okay.” She said quietly, “I… I really don’t know how to respond to that.” She gave a small laugh, “I don’t have a big speech prepared, but, um. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you more. You deserve to hear it more. I love you, James. And maybe I don’t say that enough either.”

“Yeah…” He said slowly, raising a hand to scratch the back of his head, “Um… _about that_ …” He swallowed. She was starting to get just a little concerned. Where was he going with this?

“Hang on.” He then said, which came a little out of left field. In realty, he’d simply just noticed her tears still in the corners of her eyes. He patted his pockets, and pulled out a tissue, “Ah, here we go.” he handed it to her. “Now, uh, where was I?”

“You were sounding coy and just a little like you wanted to break-up with me.” She said dryly, dapping at her eyes, because goddammit she wasn’t going to let all her friends see her cry if nothing was wrong. She didn’t _do_ happy crying. In all honesty, she preferred not to _do_ crying in general.

He gave a nervous chuckle, “Yeah…” He said quietly, “Um. No. Not that. But what you were saying earlier. I don’t need to hear you say you love me. I already know. Right _now_ , however, I’d settle pretty happily for a yes?”

Confused, she looked up. And when she did, she kept looking. And she kept looking longer. Because her brain had shorted out. She couldn’t look away. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t _speak._ No way. No way, no _way_.

“That…” She said weakly, “That… th-that’s a ring.” She muttered,

Still on one knee on the ground, he swallowed and nodded. “Uh… yeah.” He said quietly, “Yeah, it is.”

“Are…” Her throat was dry, “Are you proposing to me?”

“Um… yes?” He replied, expression halfway between a nervous smile and a grimace. “Are… are you gonna give me an answer, or…?”

“Yes.” She replied.

“Oh, okay.” He said, looking down sheepishly, “Uh, take your time, I guess, but the grass is a little dewy, so—”

“No, James.” She cut across him. “ _Yes_.”

He looked up at her, and stared, “What did you say?”

She was staring back at him, the same deer in the headlights expression as though neither of them could quite believe what was going on. “Yes.” She said again,

He got to his feet, a damp patch on one of his trouser knees, his surprise turning into a grin, “Say that again.” He implored quietly. The look in his eyes, she didn’t know how to describe it. Almost… reverence. “Please.” He whispered.

“Yes.” She repeated, “Yes. I want to marry you, James. Yes.”

She would have said it again, and again, and every moment until she’d died if he’d wanted her to. But she didn’t, because before she could say anything else he’d looped his hand around the back of her neck and he was kissing her. She kissed him back because, well, why wouldn’t she. They pulled away only long enough for him to slip the delicate silver band onto her finger, set with a circular ruby.

“Looks like the Scarlet Starlet’s off the market.” He quipped, and he kissed her again, both unaware that Steve had, by this point, pulled everyone out of their seats, and they were watching through the windows from inside.


	28. Alyy Svadba (My Love Is Like A Red, Red Rose)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Headline: HO-LY SMOKES! If the rumours are to be trusted, Bucky Barnes has proposed to his long time girlfriend, Natasha "Scarlet Starlet" Romanoff! _Eeeeee!!_ How cute! Here's hping for lots of juicy gossip in upcoming _Pits_ press tours!

“You know there’s a word for people like you.” Bucky said matter-of-factly to Steve that evening. The pair of them were sat in the bar of the apartment building, having decided to ‘move’ back out to it for a couple weeks whilst they were being interviewed basically every night with the cast. Ah, the stresses of stardom.

“ _Voyeur_.” Bucky continued, just a little crossly, also glowering a little at Jaime – who was polishing a glass – because she’d been just as bad. Both her and Steve, however, just grinned at him obnoxiously.

“You can’t blame me for wanting to know how it’d go.” Steve told him, “I mean I _know_ you went off in private so she wouldn’t feel pressured to say yes—”

“Classy, by the way.” Jaime added, pointing at him with a dishrag and a grin.

“—but you can’t seriously expect me to not watch if I _can_.” Steve continued, “I wanted to see it first-hand, not hear some story.”

“Yeah, but… it was supposed to be _private_.” Bucky insisted, “Just me and her.” He groaned and threw his hands up in exasperation. “Whatever.” He said, “What’s done is done. And…” He paused, a smile unwittingly curling his lips, “I guess it was nice you call came out afterwards.” The pair of them had kissed, kissed a little bit more (a lot more) and when they’d broken apart, Steve and the others had taken that as a sign to flow out of the restaurant and into the garden, sweeping the happy couple up into a tidal wave of hugs and congratulations.

* * *

“Oh, it’s _gorgeous!_ ” Laura exclaimed, taking Natasha’s hand to inspect the ring. Lila was clinging to her mother’s leg, so excited she was bouncing. Peggy leant in, too, and smiled.

“Very nicely done.” She agreed. The ring was modest; nothing too flashy because despite their high-life Natasha didn’t really _do_ flashy. She picked class and sophistication every time, and the ring reflected that. It was a delicate white-gold band, set with a single ruby that Bucky had eventually decided to simply have cut round; princess and marquise be damned.

“I wanna see, I wanna see!” Lila squealed and with a laugh Natasha crouched down beside the little girl and offered her hand, Lila took it, her large eyes getting even bigger as she surveyed the gem. “Oooh…” She said, “I want one!” She turned to her mother, “Mommy, can I get one?”

“Not right now, sweetie.” Laura laughed, and Lila pouted.

“Maybe when you’re older,” Peggy said, giving a wink, “Or maybe you’ll be the one giving one away.”

“Forgive me if I can’t offer my own compliments on his choice of gem,” Matt came up to them with a smile. “But from what I’ve seen, and what you’ve told me, he’s done well.”

Natasha laughed, pulling her friend into a hug, which he gladly returned. “That reminds me.” She said, looking at the lot of them, “If I’m getting married, I’ll need a bridal party. How do you feel about being my bridesmaids?”

Laura actually squealed; something that made Natasha realise where her daughter had got it from. Peggy laughed and nodded, “Absolutely.” She agreed. Matt laughed,

“Bridesmaid?” He asked, “Do I have to wear a dress?”

Natasha grinned, “Only if you want to.” She said, and she looked down at Lila again, “How do you feel about being flower girl?” She asked. Lila nodded so hard it was a wonder her head didn’t fall off her shoulders, and peeled herself off her mother to hug Natasha around the waist.

“Is Clint going to be a bridesmaid, too?” Laura asked wryly. Her first thought was him wearing a dress – and he was just silly enough to maybe actually do it. Her second thought was that it would be a little odd on the Hen Night. But Natasha shook her head,

“If it’s alright with him…” She turned and glanced at the mass of boys swarming James – her _fiancé_ , she corrected, her heart doing a little flip. She tugged on a lock of hair half-nervously, half-thoughtfully. “I’d actually like him to give me away.”

“Oh, it’ll be alright with him.” Laura said firmly, squeezing her friend’s shoulder affectionately. The words were clear, though unsaid; in the minuscule, almost-impossible-to-exist, tiny _blip_ of possibility that he wouldn’t automatically jump at that idea, she, as his wife and Nat’s sister, would make him.

“So, three bridesmaids?” Peggy asked. Nat could already see that she and Laura were going to have a blast planning this thing, and for a moment wondered if she’d gotten herself in over her head. Again, she shook her head,

“Four.” She replied, “Again, if it’s alright with her, I’d like Becky to be one, too.” Because there was no way she was going to leave her sister-in-law, her partner in teasing-James-mercilessly, and a generally lovely girl, out of her wedding party.

“DUDE!” Across the garden, Anthony was well-and-truly sloshed. He might not even remember any of this the next morning (he would, actually, and when Steve teased him about it he’d lie and say it was because he hadn’t actually drunk that much, _not_ because two of his friends had gotten engaged; what kind of mushy, crappy excuse would _that_ be?). “Congratulations!”

“Uh, thanks.” Bucky grinned. He was still a little giddy that this was _actually happening_ , and turned to Steve, “Will you—”

“Absolutely.” He said at once, and even though it was stupid to think he would’ve given any other response, Bucky breathed a small sigh of relief. He looked to Thor and Anthony, “Wanna be my groomsmen?” He asked.

“If there’s an open bar, I’ll be the stripper jumping out of a cake on your Bachelor Night.” Anthony replied solemnly – and they were all willing to bet he’d be true to his word, even stone-cold sober, “Sure, Bucky-Boy, sounds like a blast.”

“Verily!” Thor agreed, “It would be my great honour to be part of your nuptial celebrations!” Geez, he was _really_ far gone. When he was drunk he didn’t so much slur as much as sound like a fifteenth-century nobleman. Bucky turned to Clint,

“I… I think Nat might want me to be a… bridesmaid, or… bridesman? What’s it called when it’s a guy.”

“Bridesmaid.” Bucky, Steve and Anthony chorused. He tossed them an unimpressed look,

“Fine, bridesmaid.” He rolled his eyes, “Or… something.” He shrugged, “So, I might sound like a dick, but if Nat doesn’t need me for that, I’m in.”

“No, that’s fine.” Bucky grinned. Frankly he expected as much, and wondered if a groomsman was allowed to give the bride away, or if they had to be separate.

“Y’know I think Murdock’s officiated.” Clint then said, “Again, he might be part of Nat’s… _flock_. But if he’s not, that would be cool.”

“I thought you hated the guy, now you want him marrying your best friends?” Anthony asked, albeit slurring a little. Clint scowled,

“I don’t _hate_ him.” He said defensively, “We just don’t… get along super well.” He muttered, folding his arms. “Lucky for you, I might add.” He glanced at Bucky, who chuckled. He’d heard that story from Nat a few times. So, yeah, maybe that was true. Murdock was a nice guy, though, and he had a nice nurse, too, which had admittedly helped with the jealousy.

He was the jealous type; so what?

“Me and Nat’ll have to discuss it,” he said, “I think the bridesmaid number and the groomsman number has to match up.”

“Why?” Steve asked, “It’s not like we’re gonna be hooking up at the end of the night— _ow!_ ” He scowled at Anthony, “Well not with the bridesmaids!”

“Speak for yourself!” Tony squawked indignantly.

* * *

“So, any word on Murdock being officiated?” Steve asked, and Bucky shook his head,

“I asked Nat. Turns out he’s not.”

“Y’know,” Jaime cut in, “Not _everyone_ who attends Catholic church is a priest.” Steve pointed to her and raised his eyebrows at Bucky, as if to say _see?_ Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Moving on,” he muttered, “He’s one of her bridesmaids anyway – oh, and Clint’s giving her away, but she’s totally cool with him being a groomsman, too, so we’re all good.” He flashed a smile, and out of the corner of his eyes, saw Jaime looking awkward.

“Uh… y’alright?” He asked. She glanced at him, and looked away,

“I’m fine.” She said lightly. “Just, uh…” She cringed, “Oh, god, this sounds so full of myself, but… uh…” She cringed again, “When I was nineteen I… uh… it was part of a prank we were playing on a couple friends. We were trying to make my friend Tommy think his ex, Martha, and this other guy, Daniel, were getting married? It was just some prank to make him realise he still liked her, and I think they’re still together now and—geez, I’m rambling. Sorry. I just…” She swallowed, “I’m officiated.”

Steve and Bucky blinked in unison. Jaime took that as a cue to keep babbling awkwardly.

“That was part of the prank, but… it was real. I’m legally officiated.” She paused, “So… um… if you want someone who was… _there_ to marry you guys… I mean anyone can get officiated – it takes ten minutes, so really if you want Murdock to do it I totally get it, but… I could do it? If you want?”

Neither Steve nor Bucky had seen her stumble and blush this much ever before, and it was faintly hilarious. There was a long pause in which none of them said anything, and Jaime bit her lip, wondering if her luck had finally run out; she’d overstepped her bounds in this quasi-friendship with some of Hollywood’s biggest names.

“It’s fine.” She said, “Just a suggestion.” She smiled, getting over some of her embarrassment, “Never mind – hey, you two have a good time tonight. First interview since you popped the question and all.” She flashed an easy smile, “So I bet the pap’ll be all over—”

“Yes.” Bucky cut across. She blinked,

“What?” She asked gracelessly.

“Yes.” He repeated, “You can officiate. I mean, you can if you want to. I think that’d be good, actually.” He turned to Steve, who nodded,

“Yeah.” He agreed, “You saw the pair of ‘em back when they were still dating, I bet you have a few stories for the altar – and my best man’s speech.” His smile turned positively evil, and Bucky, though still smiling, widened his eyes in a slightly fearful dread. Maybe asking Steve to be his best man hadn’t been such a good idea.

“You boys ready to go?” The three of them turned to see Nat walking into the bar, looking modestly dolled up for their interview tonight. Some talk-show; _Late Night with Jeff Mace_ or something. Steve and Bucky were in smart (not premiere-smart, but smart) suits, and Bucky had forgone a tie entirely. She was in a dark purple dress that offset her red hair, and drew attention to the ring on her finger. Bucky grinned; he couldn’t _wait_ for everyone to see it, and was hoping for something along the lines of _“So how was filming like on the last couple days, knowing it would all be over s—OH MY GOD IS THAT A RING??!_ ” Because he was a child.

“We’ve been ready for half an hour.” Steve laughed, standing up and straightening his jacket, “Tony should be here with the car any minute.” It seemed Jarvis had insisted upon driving them all to their various interviews; it was more discreet than a limo or getting a cab, but on top of that he was just a nice guy, the perpetual father figure – quite literally, to Anthony himself. “You’ve been busy dolling up.”

“Perfection takes time.” She replied breezily, coming over to kiss James on the cheek. They were always affectionate, but since he’d given her that ring, she’d been even more so. Granted, it’d only been 24 hours so far, but he was sincerely hoping it lasted; like a rejuvenated honeymoon period – and that thought made him laugh, as well as sent a slight bolt of fear through him. _Honeymoon_. Not for at least a few months, surely, but still. Whoa.

“Please, you were born perfect.” He grinned, turning his head to kiss her properly, hands wrapping around her waist, and her arms going around his neck. Steve and Jaime looked away, a little embarrassed but secretly both very pleased. They were annoyingly cute. “And,” Bucky continued, “Jaime has very kindly offered to be our officiant.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows and turned to Jaime. “Really?” She asked. Her expression was unreadable; Jaime couldn’t tell if she was pleased or annoyed, and nodded carefully.

“Uh… yeah.” She said, “I’m already officiated, so… I mean unless you wanna get a priest or someone else to get officiated, I could…” She trailed off, deciding to staple her mouth shut when she got home that night because _she was babbling!_

“No,” Natasha said, “No, you should do it. I’d like that.” She turned to Bucky, “I mean if you’re okay with it.”

“You kidding?” Bucky grinned, “I think it’s hilarious.” He turned to Jaime, “Just make sure you get one of those little white collar-paper thingies.”

Jaime grinned, “It’s your wedding.” She replied. At that, Natasha had her own bolt of fear shoot through her. _Her wedding_. That suddenly seemed like a monumental sentence, two words as it was. Everything suddenly seemed very, very _big_. And very daunting.

“Yo, Spangles!” Anthony’s voice sounded from the lobby, “Where are ya? We’re gonna be late?”

Having not realised the time, Steve swore, making Natasha and Jaime turned to him, surprised. Bucky was unfazed, and turned to Natasha – _his fiancée_. _Holy crap._ – with a wry smile.

“You’ve known him since college, how’re you still surprised by this?” He asked. She scowled slightly and swatted his arm as he stood and the three of them made for the lobby, and Jarvis’ car. Bucky looked back over his shoulder, “Night, J.”

“Night, Buck.” She grinned, holding up the glass she was cleaning as though offering a toast.

* * *

At the sound of the screaming down the phone, Bucky took it away from his ear, grimacing. Deciding it probably wasn’t going to get any better, he pressed _speakerphone_ and when the shrieking finally stopped, asked, “You two done?”

He was answered by another shriek.

“YOU’RE MARRYING HER!” That was Becky, “YOU ACTUALLY ASKED HER AND SHE ACTUALLY SAID YES! WHAT THE HELL?!”

“I hope that’s a _pleased_ ‘what the hell’.” He said flatly, “Because believe it or not it’s not _completely_ beyond the realm of possibility that, yes, my long-term girlfriend said _yes_ when I asked her to marry me.”

“To be honest I still can’t believe she’s your girlfriend.” Becky replied frankly, “I mean she’s _the_ Scarlet Starlet and you’re… you.”

“Thanks.” He muttered, “Mom, you have anything to say?”

“Stop being mean to your brother, Rebecca.” Winnie said briskly, “But, yes, darling, I’m so excited! You’re all grown up; going to be starting a family of your own!”

“Uh, actually, Mom, about that…” He paused, “I probably should’ve told you earlier, but… actually, could you hang on just one sec?” He probably should have waited for an answer before muting the call. Oh well. He went over to Natasha in the next room. She was curled up on the sofa, reading some Russian book and picking at a bowl of strawberries. “Hey, Nat? Could you help me with something?”

She looked up, and her smile became predatory as it always was these days. The effect of that ring had been bigger – and more mutual – than he’d expected. He squirmed comfortably under her gaze, “Not that – right now.” He muttered, “I’m on the phone to my mom.”

“Oh.” At once her expression cooled, like a hot coal dropped in water, and her smile went a little sheepish. “Right. Something wrong?”

“Not exactly.” He said, “Just, uh… my mom still thinks you…” He grimaced and made a vague gesture, feeling awkward, but she understood, and nodded.

“You should tell her.” She said, “She’s gonna have to find out sooner or later.”

“Are... are you sure?”

Natasha shrugged, “She’s going to be my mother-in-law. I don’t want to start that relationship with a lie.” She offered a smile that to someone who didn’t know her would’ve looked calm and serene, but Bucky _did_ know her, and he knew nervous when he saw it. “The lies come later.”

He smiled, and reached out his arm. It was his left one, because his right was holding the phone, but she took it happily, pulled herself up to standing. He swapped his phone to the other arm and threaded his flesh-and-blood hand through hers, fingers squeezing tightly, and kissed her forehead. He felt the thin, white scar, her own keepsake from Providence Station, under his lips. She’d done everything short of plastic surgery – creams and oils and make-up – to hide it, but he liked it. She was beautiful with it and beautiful without it. It showed everyone that she was more than pretty, too. She was strong, she was a survivor. She smiled at him, and he unmuted the call. “Mom?”

“Still here, Jimmy.” Came the reply, “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, Mom. Nat’s here, we just… we have something to tell you.”

“Besides the engagement?” That was Becky’s voice, “Oh my god, did you knock her up? Is that why you’re getting married? Is that why she said ye—”

“Rebecca, let your brother get a word in.” Winnie admonished lightly. “What is it, Jimmy?”

“Mrs Barnes – uh, Winnie…” Natasha said carefully, “I probably should have told you this before, but, um… I can’t have kids. I’m not… I can’t get pregnant.”

There was a long pause. A very long pause, and no sound emerged from the other end of the phone. Bucky checked just to see if he’d accidentally muted it again. He hadn’t.

“Okay.” Came Becky’s voice eventually. It sounded light and friendly; like it didn’t matter to her. “Thanks for telling us, I guess. Sorry about the knock-up joke.”

“It’s fine, Becky.” Nat offered a small smile. James kissed her forehead again, rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Is your mother alright?”

“Mom?” Becky asked, “Mom, say something?” There was a pause, “She went out back, hang on.” There was shuffling, then again, “Mom? What’re you doing?” Natasha tensed, uncomfortable. She felt James tense, too. The ring on her finger suddenly felt very heavy. James’ hand around her tightened.

“Sorry, Natasha.” Winnie’s voice finally sounded on the phone, “I just… I needed a minute. At Christmas… I told you I would be honoured for you to be the mother of my grandchildren… I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s really fine, Mrs—Winnie.”

“No, it’s not. It was rude of me to assume you could just _have_ children, that you even _wanted_ children. It’s not my place to just expect something from you, especially since you weren’t even _engaged_ at the time.” She paused, and sighed, “That aside, my point stands. Regardless of all that, I would still very much like for you to be part of our family. And I’m glad Jimmy _finally_ found his sense and got around to actually asking you.”

“Mom…” Bucky whined, but he was smiling, and Natasha heaved a sigh of relief. She felt tears burning in the backs of her eyes – twice in three days; god, she was a wreck.

“That… that means a lot, Winnie.” She said, “That’s… thank you. It really means a lot.”

“You’re the woman my son wants to marry.” Winnie told her, “The woman who wants to marry my son. You make each other happy, and that’s all I could ever ask for.”

“Agreed.” Came Becky’s voice, “You’re part of the family now, no matter what.” She laughed, “Like the mafia; once you’re in, you never get out.”

* * *

James continued talking to the pair of them for a while. Natasha asked Becky to be her bridesmaid (sparking another round of shrieking and eventually a ‘yes’), then said his goodbyes and sat down beside her on the sofa. He watched her.

“Are you okay?” He asked. She looked up from her book and nodded with a smile. Both were genuine.

“Yeah, actually.” She said, “It’s kind of a weight off my chest. I was… I admit I was kinda worried your mother would hate me for that.”

“Nah.” He shook his head, tilting it back to rest on the back of the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. He couldn’t wait to go back to their little country farmhouse after all the interviews were over, and have at least a week of solid quality time. “She’s not the type to go on about having grandkids. She really only cares that me and Becks are happy and healthy.” He turned to her with a smile, “Plus, Becks loves you and thinks you’re awesome.”

“I think she’s awesome, too.” Natasha laughed, setting her book aside and moving across the sofa to rest in the crook of his arm. He rested his cheek on her head again, and they sat in gentle quiet for a while.

“I really love you, James.” She said, “And I really don’t say that enough.”

“You don’t need to.” He replied, “I already know it.”

“Yeah. But I like saying it.” She shrugged, tilting her head up to kiss him. “I love you.”

He laughed, and kissed her back, “I love you, too.”

As if there was any doubt.

* * *

“Hey, Buck?” At the sound of his name, Bucky turned, and saw Anthony walking towards him, looking unusually serious. He frowned,

“Hey, Anthony.” He said, “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

“No, everything’s fine.” The other man promised, “Great, actually. Really great.” He paused, “I was… just here to congratulate you!” He punched Bucky’s arm affectionately; the right one, because he cared too much about his engineering to risk damaging his baby, even if he knew it was designed to endure _waaay_ more wear-and-tear than a light punch.

“And I’m a bright purple giraffe.” Bucky said flatly, folding his arms, “C’mon, Anthony, we’ve known each other for four years. What’s up?”

Anthony grimaced, “Well… I didn’t wanna take any of you guys’ thunder, so close to the wedding and all…” That was true; The Big Day was less than a month away, and as it grew ever closer he became more and more excited, and more and more terrified. In a few days, Nat would be moving back to their apartment in the city, the pair of them having decided to spend the last two weeks before the wedding entirely apart, now that all the planning was done.

Laura and Peggy had been forces to reckon with during said planning. Nine months seemed like a long time, but when it came to planning a wedding, it really wasn’t. Laura wasn’t used to not having a budget, and had enjoyed herself thoroughly in making sure every detail was perfect. The theme, so to speak, was _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ (Peggy’s suggestion, one Natasha and Bucky had accepted with confusion but liking), so it would be a late-afternoon ceremony, lots of nature and flowers, and a big dance in a marquee (“ _But,_ ” Peggy had added, “ _Of course, it’ll be a **nice** marquee. Something with a solid floor and no bugs_ ”) when the sun set, and it would all feel vaguely magical and warm. For extra flair, they had deliberately set the date for June 21st – the summer solstice.

The two ladies had been the pillars holding Natasha up as they’d helped to sort out every detail. Bucky’s only real insistence on the whole thing (frankly he didn’t care what the theme was or how the flowers looked so long as the people he loved were there, the woman he loved was happy, and there was plenty of alcohol and music) had been a live band and chocolate-flavoured wedding cake. So now they’d booked a band called _The Defenders_ (lead singer was a colleague of Murdock’s, Jessie Jones or some-such) and black forest gateau was set to be iced in white, with a tiny Bucky and Natasha figurine on top.

Laura and Peggy had also been meticulous about the arrangements of the day itself, planning everything out so Natasha and Bucky wouldn’t even _see_ each other on the big day until the actual ceremony. Their venue was a large hotel in the country, the old-manor-house type, with large gardens and plenty of space for a _nice_ marquee – _I’m telling you, Laura, there’s no such thing as a **nice** marquee / And I’m telling **you** , Peggy, I have attended my fair share of weddings. Wooden flooring, heating system, it **will** be nice_. Somewhat annoyingly, the pair of them had booked Bucky and Natasha’s rooms on opposite ends of the building (and the honeymoon suite for the actual wedding, _of course_ ) just to be on the safe side. No sneaky-peeks until The Big Moment.

Bucky was drawn from this tangent (as the day loomed ever closer, the capital letters of Big Day and Big Moment were starting to feel evermore threatening) when Anthony continued. He didn’t say anything, rather he was holding out a small box. Bucky looked at it.

“Uh... cufflinks?” He asked. Anthony shook his head, dropped the box into Bucky’s palm. He opened it, and saw a ring there. Yellow gold, plain save for an engraving on the inside. A date.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have…?” Bucky said slowly, inspecting the date, “What’s the significance of August 22nd?”

Anthony snatched the ring back, “It’s not for you.” He said irritably, flushing. “It’s for Steve, I…” He swallowed, “August 22nd was our first date.”

Bucky stared, “Oh my god.” He muttered, “You… to _Steve?_ That’s awesome!” Now it was Anthony’s turn to stare.

“Really?” He asked, and Bucky nodded,

“Sure!” He said, “You’re a good guy, Steve obviously loves you. You have my blessing.”

Anthony grinned, albeit nervously. “That’s exactly what I was after.” He said, “I already asked Sarah, but… I dunno, ‘cause his Dad’s not around I felt like I should ask his brother instead.”

Bucky laughed, and clapped him on the back – a little harder than he meant to, and with his metal arm, Anthony grimaced. “Oops. Sorry, man. But still, congrats. And don’t worry about stealing my and Nat’s thunder, the wedding’s not for another three weeks.” _Oh my god._

_Three weeks._

He was now, officially, terrified.

* * *

“Oh, I can’t do this! I can’t do this! I changed my mind, I can’t do this!” Matt, Laura, Becky and Peggy were all currently wrestling Natasha away from the door of her suite; she was trying to make a break for it. Not her first attempt, undoubtedly the last.

“Natasha!” Laura was half-shouting, “Calm down! Stop freaking out!”

“It’s too much!” Natasha cried, “I can’t do this!”

“Honestly, Natasha!” Peggy exclaimed, her arms wrapped solidly around the woman’s midsection. She was still in her robe, for gods sakes, the makeup artist and stylist hadn’t even arrived yet. “Look at yourself. You are a grown woman, and you are about to marry the man you love. Take a breath, calm yourself. Do you think Bucky is behaving like this?”

* * *

“BUCKY, YOU CLOSE THAT WINDOW RIGHT NOW!”

Steve was yelling. Anthony was laughing his ass off. Clint was picking through a generic magazine they’d found on the suite coffee table. In the distance: sirens.

Well, not sirens. But considering how things were going, they wouldn’t have been out of place.

“It’s okay—it’s okay, I can totally climb that distance.” Bucky was chattering, standing before the open window, easily large enough for him to fit through. He was four storeys up. “I’ll get the car from the parking lot, drive back to the city, get on a plane and go live in Uruguay.”

“Uruguay?” Clint asked, turning a page of his magazine idly. “Why not Hawaii?”

“ _Not helping_.” Steve hissed at him, lurching forwards and pulling his friend away from the window, “Buck, get away from there! You could hurt yourself!”

“Everyone should go to Hawaii,” Clint muttered to no one in particular, “I went there for _my_ honeymoon. It was great.”

“No, it’s perfect.” Bucky continued, “She’ll never look for me in Uruguay. Or Australia, I could blend in there; _g’day mate!_ ” His Australian accent was painful, and despite everything else none of the others could suppress a wince.

“Tony, a little help here!” Steve whined, his strength enough to combat Bucky’s but not enough to quite outmatch him, resulting in a bizarre tug-o-war situation where Bucky was both the opposing team and the rope. There was a knock on the door.

“Mr Stark?” Came a voice.

“Sorry, Spangles, it seems I’m needed.” Anthony said, walking over to the door and opening it. “Peter!” He cried, “You made it! Great!”

“ _WHO’S PETER?!_ ” Steve yelled from the window.

“He’s our photographer!” Anthony announced, “Works with Jaime.” He turned to the boy, “Hey, kid, snap a picture of that, will you? Something for the wedding album.” Obediently, though confused, Peter did as asked and took a picture of Steve with his heels dug into the floor, arms around Bucky’s waist, trying to pull him down and away from the window frame.

“CLINT!” Steve cried, “WILL YOU PLEASE HELP ME HERE? AT THIS RATE THERE WON’T BE A WEDDING ALBUM BECAUSE THERE’LL BE NO WEDDING!”

“Okay,” Anthony was saying to Peter, “You go see if you can get any shots of the bride party before the big day properly starts, yeah? Normally I’d say to make ‘em _risqué_ but I think Red would kill me, for one thing, and you don’t mess with a bride on her wedding day, so make ‘em cute and pretty, okay?”

“Yes, Mr Stark.” Peter smiled. Anthony grinned at him,

“Awesome. See you round.” And he showed Peter out of the room. When he turned back to the window, he saw Clint hadn’t moved, and the tug-o-war by the window hadn’t yet announced a winner.

“Spangles, let him go.” Anthony said calmly, “If he really wants to go, we should let him. And if he doesn’t, he’s just feeding off the attention. _Like a child!_ ” He added in a louder voice, to make sure the groom heard him.

“Tony, are you sure—” Steve began,

“No, let him go, Steve.” Clint agreed, closing his magazine at last. “He’s a big boy, he can make his own choices.” He fixed his gaze on Bucky’s back, and though the other man wasn’t facing him, he could feel his eyes. He had eyes like a hawk, a sniper. You felt his gaze like it had a real weight. His tone was stone and authority. No question, just an order. “So, are you gonna walk out on the love of your life, or are you gonna sit down and get fucking married.”

Bucky sat down.

Steve and Anthony turned to him, agape. “You have _got_ to teach me how to do that.” Steve said. Clint gave a chuckle, half derisive,

“I have three kids, Steve.” He said, “It’s not taught, its learned.” Steve turned to Anthony, who shook his head.

“Uh-uh, no way.” He said, “You are not putting _this_ body through children.” He struck a ridiculous pose and pouted like a magazine model, which for once actually made the others laugh. Really laugh – a testament to their nerves, if nothing else.

* * *

“I need some air.” Natasha said, as Laura helped do up the back of her dress (it was complicated to the point of needing an instruction manual, and call her girly but she rather hoped it didn’t get damaged because of that factor). It was an A-line princess gown, no lace but some jewel detailing and some sort of folding-pattern across the bodice. She couldn’t describe it very well, but it was pretty. Very pretty. And maybe it was childish but she felt like a princess whilst wearing it. Maybe that was why they called it a princess gown.

“You look so pretty.” Lila grinned, adorable in her little flower-girl dress. At Natasha’s insistence, the colour scheme was red and cream, so the bridesmaids’ dresses were all a deep scarlet with cream sashes round the waist, and they all had wreaths of wildflowers to wear as growns. Lila’s dress was much the same, but with a puffier skirt, alongside red and cream ribbons in her hair and a basket full of red- and white rose petals to sprinkle down the aisle later. Matt, obviously not in a dress and wreath, was dressed like the groomsmen; a black suit with a white dress-shirt and a red bow tie. To make him stand out from the _actual_ groomsmen, he had a red waistcoat instead of a cummerbund, and two roses (one red, one white) in his lapel instead of a red-and-cream handkerchief.

“Thanks, sweetie.” Natasha grinned down at her. Her own contribution to the colour scheme was her hair, which she’d dyed a slightly darker, redder shade than natural just for the occasion, and her bouquet of red and white roses was sitting patiently on the side. Her own wreath-crown, made entirely of white roses, was sat next to it.

Laura and Peggy exchanged a look. Becky sniggered, and Matt raised an eyebrow. “Do you promise not to bolt?” He asked. She nodded,

“I promise.” She said, “I’ve calmed down, honestly. I just want to stretch my legs, take a walk through some of the grounds.”

Peggy and Laura were silent for a long moment, but even they weren’t about to deny the bride on her wedding day. “Fine.” Laura said eventually, “But you have to be back before half-past.” That gave her forty minutes. Plenty of time to get some air. She nodded, and stood.

“Would you like an escort, miss?” Matt grinned, offering his arm. His red-tinted glasses and cane fit perfectly with the rest of the occasion – pure coincidence, but still nice. She laughed, and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, but declined.

“I think I need to be on my own a little.” She said, “Get my head around all of this.” She gave a small chuckle, “Hm. I still can’t believe this is actually happening.”

“You and me both.” Becky muttered, and then there was a knock on the door. She was closest, so moved to answer it, where a young man was stood with a camera.

“Peter?” Nat said, perplexed. “What’re you doing here?”

He held up his camera, “Hey, Ms Romanoff.” He smiled, “Mr Stark hired me to be your photographer, I was hoping to get a few snaps of the bridal party.”

Becky pouted, “I thought _I_ was the photographer.” She said. She’d taken several photos of the lot of them getting ready, with Nat in her dressing down, hair being styled; Laura and Peggy wrestling her to her seat; Matt sitting in a chair, smiling in the wrong direction (but Natasha knew he was just playing it for laughs)

“And me!” Lila cried. She’d taken a handful of photos after lengthy instruction from her mother to be careful and several _wait not like that_ -s from Becky.

“Well…” Peter looked a little embarrassed, “Mr Stark paid me. I mean, I won’t if _you’re_ the photographer, but—”

“No, it’s okay, Peter.” Laura smiled, “It means we can finally have a picture with all of us in the shot, come here, Lila, honey, let’s get a group shot.” Natasha led Matt to the center of the room and Peter snapped a picture of them all hugging each other.

“How about this,” he said, “We both take photos? Then there’ll be plenty to choose from.” He smiled, and Becky, after a moment, smiled too.

“Deal.” She said, “And I suppose that’s for the best, I can’t exactly get my camera out when you’re walking down the aisle.” She turned to Natasha with a smile, and the bride returned it with slight strain; the panic flaring up again.

All the same, Peter nodded, took a few more photos, including one of Lila holding up her basket beside Nat, then excused himself to take pictures of the set-up of the marquee in the gardens. Nat herself followed soon after, eager for some fresh air.

She walked through the hotel’s grounds in comfortable flats that she had pointedly announced she _was_ wearing when the dancing started later, because dammit, she was dancing at her wedding and she didn’t want to break and ankle doing it. It wouldn’t be ballet, obviously, but it would be silly and fun and (hopefully) absolutely wonderful.

She was walking along the treeline when she noticed someone beside her, and she turned to see James walking over to her. She darted behind a tree, out of his sight, but he’d already seen her.

“James!” She exclaimed, pressing her back up against the tree, head turned to the side, “We’re not supposed to see each other!”

“Bit late for that, I think.” He said. She could hear him coming closer, and he walked around the tree to stand in front of her. “Damage is done. And, by the way, you look _amazing_.” He smiled, and maybe it was a bit licentious, but it’d been _two weeks_ since they’d done more than peck each other on the cheek.

“So do you.” She agreed, her smile and eyes also not hiding how much she’d missed him. He looked good. _Really_ good. Clean-shaven, hair neatly cut and combed back in that forties style that suited him more than was surely legal. Like the rest of his party, his suit was black, with a deep red bow-tie and cummerbund. He had roses in his lapel, like Matt, but unique to his suit was the deep red star stitched on the shoulder of his left sleeve, and though he was wearing white gloves, she knew he was wearing the silver prosthetic.

She stood up straight from the tree and wrapped her hands loosely around his waist. He did the same. “How’re things going with the groom party?”

_BUCKY, YOU CLOSE THAT WINDOW RIGHT NOW!_

_I CAN GET ON A PLANE AND GO TO URUGUAY!_

_WHO’S PETER?!_

“Fine.” He replied, his voice a little too quick and high-pitched to be believable. “You?”

“Oh, swimmingly.” She answered, in the same unconvincing tone.

“That bad, huh?” He asked. She grimaced,

“I just got overwhelmed.” She said, “It all hit me that this is _happening_ and I want it, I do, I _really_ do, but it’s so… much.”

“I know what you mean.” He agreed, moving one hand to tuck it under her chin, “And I want this, too. More than I can say. I love you.”

She smiled, “I love you, too.” And for the first time in over a fortnight, they kissed. _Properly_ kissed. He would’ve pressed her into the tree if he wasn’t acutely aware that Peggy and Laura would kill him if he damaged or dirtied the dress before the ceremony had even _started_. All the same they were so lost in each other that neither of them heard the _click_ of a camera, as one young man turned away from the set-up to spy a couple in love sharing a forbidden moment. That would be the cover of the wedding album, later on.

When they broke apart, still unaware anyone had seen them, they laughed.

“Oh, I bet my make-up is smeared…” She muttered. Her lipstick _was_ a little smeared, in that most of it was now on his face. Luckily, he had a napkin in his pocket – for some reason Clint had insisted the entire groom party have their pockets stuffed full of napkins to hand out to everyone who would be crying. Natasha laughed as he wiped the lipstick away, and he found himself chuckling, too.

“I should probably get back to my room so Peggy can kill me and have my make-up redone.” She said.

“Okay.” He agreed, “I’ll see you later, yeah? Keep an eye out for me, I’ll be the guy in the awesome suit, marrying the most wonderful woman in the world.”

She grinned, stupidly in love with him, and gave him one last kiss – on his cheek – as a parting gift. “Only if you watch out for me, I’ll be the one marrying the gorgeous dork.” She replied, then gathered up her skirts and walked back up to the hotel. He sighed, leaning against the tree and watching her walk away. When he next saw her, she’d become his wife. _His wife_.

He didn’t hear the camera click again, catch the shot of him staring dreamily after her as he casually rested against a tree. A picture of content and tranquillity.

* * *

“You ready?” Steve asked as Bucky stood by the altar. The pair of them in all their wedding finery, were not alone at the altar, but the other people there were pointedly pretending not to be able to hear their conversation. One of them was their officiant; Jaime. She was currently in a suit, all black save for the strip of white paper on the collar. She’d change for the reception later, and was currently on a small step so as to be able to look the happy couple in the eye. At 5’3”, she was four inches shorter than Natasha, and seven shorter than Bucky. However, she was far from the shortest person there – Cooper, not even five feet tall yet, was stood dutifully beside her. The pair of them chattered about whatever Cooper was currently obsessed with. He was twelve, and was going through a superhero phase. Batman was his favourite.

“Trying not to think about it.” Bucky muttered. He’d actually been listening in to Jaime and Cooper discussing the various merits of each of Batman’s Robins, trying to keep himself calm. “I keep thinking this is gonna blow up – or turn out to not be real. Y’know?”

“No, actually.” Steve replied, “I’m not the one getting married.” _Yet_ , Bucky added in his head. Steve grinned and put a hand on his shoulder, “Relax. You’re doing great. Just focus on her, I’m sure it’ll be easy.” Just as he’d finished speaking, the music started up, and the gathered guests rose. On the right side of hall – Bucky’s left – the seats were all empty, waiting for the bridal party. On the left, the groom’s side, all bar one was empty; Winnie Barnes in a pale blue hat and matching dress, already tearing up at the sight of her young man standing at the altar.

Then entered the bridal party. Slowly the groomsmen and bridesmaids filed in; Peggy and Thor, then Laura and Matt (okay so they were both bridal party, but it added up nicely), followed by Lila as flower girl (who obviously got a round of coos from the various guests), then Nat on Clint’s arm, grinning giddily, and Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off her.

It was cliché, it was ridiculous, it was insipid, but she’d honestly never looked more beautiful. It wasn’t just the dress and the make-up, it was her _smile_. The joy that radiated off of her, the excitement, the disbelief that _this was actually happening_. As she walked down the aisle with Clint, she mouthed ‘Hi’, her grin so wide he almost missed it. Having recovered enough to pick up his jaw, he grinned back at her.

“He looks pleased to see you,” Clint murmured, as they walked down the aisle. Nat nodded, not trusting herself to speak. James had never looked so handsome; the look in his eyes was something she would happily drown in. His mouth was hanging open, he was literally dumfounded, and when she mouthed a tentative ‘hi’, dizzy with disbelief, his grin lit up the room.

Behind them, Bucky noticed, was Becks: Natasha’s Maid of Honour. And she looked stunning in her dress, and he managed to take his eyes off of Natasha for the tiniest fraction of a moment to let his heart swell with brotherly pride at his little sister. She grinned at him and threw a wink, before cocking her head slightly, and he easily returned his gaze to Natasha, who was only a few feet away. Clint arrived at the altar, and looked Bucky keen in the eye.

“You take good care of her.” He said calmly. Bucky nodded. Clint shook his head; firm and sure, then extracted his arm from Natasha’s grip, kissing her cheek before letting Bucky take her hands, and sitting down beside Laura and Lila. Cooper threw his parents a wave, and they waved back, grinning proudly.

“Hey.” Nat murmured. Impossibly, Bucky’s smile got bigger.

“Hey.” He replied, “You look… amazing.”

“So do you.”

Jaime cleared her throat slightly, and muttered in a low tone, “You guys ready?” They both nodded, so she raised her head and addressed the room. “Ladies, gentlemen, assorted stars of Hollywood, we’re gathered here today to bear witness to the union of Natalia Alianova Romanova, and James Buchanan Barnes.” She paused, looking down at her little cards. “Marriage,” she told them, “In the words of Grouchi Marx, is a wonderful institution. Of course he then went on to say who wants to live in _any_ institution, but I think we have our answer right here.” A small wave of chuckles rippled around the room.

“Natasha and Bucky, here, met through friends. Steve, our best man – give them a wave, Steve.” As if no one knew who he was already, but he obliged and gave a wave anyway, grinning. “He went to acting college with Natasha, and a couple years later this blossomed into him recommending his best friend for the lead in her new film. Once production ended, the two of them went on their first date. I was actually there; the doorman who had to vet Bucky and buzz him into her building, because we got a lot of creeps in that area.”

“He’s one of them!” Anthony hollered from the groom’s side of the room, sending up another ripple of laughter.

“The relationship was not without it’s rough patches. But four years of commitment, hard work and the love that I think we all strive to find one day, has led us to be here today.” She dropped her gaze from the room to look at Nat and Bucky in turn, “I haven’t known you nearly as long as most of the people in this room, but I’m confident when I say that I’ve never met two people more deserving of the love you bring each other, nor two people who are as infuriatingly adorable.” They both gave a small laugh, and Nat looked away a moment, blushing. Jaime then continued, “I understand you’ve both prepared vows?”

They nodded, and Steve pulled a card out from his pocket, handing it to Bucky. He cleared his throat.

“Natalia.” He began, sounding oddly formal, “As you know, I haven’t had all that many long-term relationships. I could never imagine finding someone so perfect that I would want to spend the rest of my life with them. But after meeting you, I understood, and now I can’t imagine a day of my life going by that doesn’t have you in it.” All the women in the room collectively went _aww_ as if on cue. He blushed. “It’s been a… _strange_ couple of years, we’ve had our highs and lows, but I can safely say that I wouldn’t change a single thing, because all of them led me to today; to you becoming my wife – if you’ll still have me.” He cocked a grin, and she laughed. “I love how you speak your mind, how you never let anyone push you around, how you’re so fiercely protective and loving of your family.” He reached out to ruffle Cooper’s hair, and the boy grinned proudly. “Most of all, I just love _you_. And if you’ll let me, I’ll keep loving you until the day I die.”

She was tearing up. He’d actually made her cry. Internally, he felt a small bubble of pride. _I’ve still got it._ He thought. She grinned at him. There was a long pause, and Jaime prodded her gently with a, “And Natasha?”

“Um… yeah…” She muttered, and Becky handed her a card of her own. She cleared her throat. “When I was younger, I was a little jaded. I never really believed that true love like you see in the movies is real. And even now, I still believe that a little. It’s not easy, and it’s not without its problems, but my time with you, James, has proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that love is absolutely real, and absolutely worth it. You’re not just the love of my life, you’re my best friend – sorry, Clint—” She added, grinning at him in the seats below. He mock-pouted and folded his arms. She turned back to Bucky, “—and the idea of doing anything and not having you by my side actually terrifies me. You’re strong, brave, caring and sweet. You’re smart and silly, and you make me laugh. But most of all, you make me happy, and if I can show you just a fraction of the happiness you give me, then I’ll be okay.”

“The rings, please?” Jaime asked. Cooper stepped forwards, handing one to Natasha and one to Bucky. “Bucky, repeat after me. With this ring—”

“With this ring.”

“—I, James Buchanan Barnes—”

“I, James Bucky Barnes,” He corrected with a grin.

“—take you, Natalia Alianova Romanova—”

“Take you, Natalia Alianova Romanova,”

“—to be my wife.”

“To be my wife.”

“For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health—”

“For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health,”

“—I bind my life to yours, now and forever.”

“I bind my life to yours, now and forever.” He concluded, slipping the dainty white-gold band onto her finger. Jaime nodded,

“Natasha?” She said, “Repeat after me. With this ring—”

“With this ring.” She parroted,

“—I, Natalia Alianova Romanova—”

“I, Natalia Alianova Romanova,”

“—take you, James Bucky Barnes—”

“Take you, James Bucky Barnes,”

“—to be my husband.”

“To be my husband.”

“For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health—”

“For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health,”

“—I bind my life to yours, now and forever.”

“I bind my life to yours, now and forever.”

Jaime grinned at them both, “By the power vested in me by… I was drunk, so I don’t actually remember – I now pronounce you husband and wife!” The guests all got to their feet, cheering and clapping, and as Bucky leant in to kiss her, it felt exactly like the first time.

“Hey,” she whispered to him, close enough that he heard above the cheering, “You’re my husband now.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “And you’re my wife. You’re stuck with me _forever_.” She laughed, swatted his shoulder, and he turned to face the groom’s side of the room and cheered at them, raising his arms. “I did it!” He cried, and Steve practically bounced over to him, pulling him into a fierce hug, with lots of back patting and shaking and _bro_ -ing. Clint and Laura stood up and swept Natasha up in a hug, Lila squealing with joy and Cooper calmly accepting a hug from his Auntie Nat even though _he was twelve now_ and _hugs are icky_. Then of course the happy couple reunited and as the guests filed out for the reception, they shared a kiss that was decidedly less chaste.

“Hey, picture of the happy couple?” They broke apart to see Peter standing there, and, laughing, they agreed, allowing him to snap a photo of the pair of them tangled in each other’s arms, grins a mile wide, before they followed the guests out into the little marquee for the reception – food and, more importantly, dancing.

“Will you be breaking out any signature ballet moves?” Bucky asked her as they walked, her hands around his arm all proper and ladylike.

“Depends on how drunk I get.” She shrugged, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“I get the first dance, right?” He teased. She pretended to consider it.

“Well… I _really_ promised Steve the first dance…” She said, “On account of our long-running affair and all…”

“I suppose I _did_ promise Anthony the same…” Bucky admitted, then dropped the game to add, “Oh, wait, did I tell you he’s planning to propose to Steve?”

Natasha turned to stare at him, “He _what?!_ ”

* * *

Later at the reception, the party was in full swing, and Natasha was showing off a routine she and Clint had devised at the first wedding they’d attended together. Cooper and Lila were dancing their own mimic of the routine. Thor and Sif were at the bar, heavily into a drinking competition, Peggy and Angie were dominating the dancefloor with their smooth moves, and Matt was chatting to Laura as she watched Nathanial. Jaime was off to the side, chatting to one of the guests – a makeup artist called Pietro, Bucky thought, if he remembered correctly. He approached her with an irritated expression.

“Hey.” He muttered, nodding to Pietro, then turned to Jaime, “Where’s Tony?” He asked,

“Not sure” Jaime replied, voice muffled by a mouth full of cake. “S’good, by the way. Black forest. Yum.” She swallowed, then continued in a clearer voice, “Why’re you looking for him?”

“I need to punch him.” Bucky said shortly. Jaime stared,

“Uh… is this a marriage tradition I ain’t heard of or did he do something wrong?”

“You tell me, because the photographer _he_ hired – _your_ co-worker, I might add – is currently sticking his tongue down my little sister’s throat.”

“I see.” Jaime said thoughtfully, “Hey – not that I _want_ you to, but why don’t you punch Peter?” He wasn’t impressed, and she shrugged, “Alright, alright. I think, uh… he might be upstairs in his room with Steve, but I dunno if that’s the sorta thing you wanna interrupt, I’m pretty sure I heard them talking about knots earlier.” Her mouth flattened and eyebrows raised in an expression that suggested _do so at your own peril_.

“Aw, let her have some fun, James!” Natasha admonished, appearing seemingly from nowhere, grinning broadly and hugging him from behind. “It’s not Tony’s fault, and Peter seems like a nice boy.”

“He’s a dork!” Jaime supplied helpfully, “Lives with his aunt, has this stuffed toy spider, like comic books. I promise, if your sister isn’t put off by his lameness, I promise she’s in safe hands.”

“See?” Natasha smiled, “Now come on, you owe me another dance, Mr Romanoff.”

“Mr _Barnes_ you mean. _You’re_ Mrs Barnes.”

“No, you’re Mr Romanoff.” Jaime and Pietro chorused. He shot them both a glare,

“Shut up.” He said petulantly. Natasha laughed,

“You can be whoever you want to be.” She promised him, leaning up to kiss his cheek, “Now dance with me!”

Laughing, he allowed her to drag him onto the dancefloor, fit his hands around her waist, and like two characters in one of her movies, they danced the night away, their troubles forgotten in the wake of the new life they were only just beginning to build together.


	29. Epilogue

“Just… okay, just here, Darcy. Yeah, that’s perfect.” Jane directed her camerawoman to her mark, and just in time. In her ear, she could hear head newscaster. _And now we go to our Hollywood correspondent Jane Foster-Blake who’s giving us all the details. Jane?_ A few seconds later, the light flipped on and she was live.

“Thanks, Erik.” She smiled into the camera, “You’re right. I’m standing outside the theatre, and we can already see the cast lining up on the red carpet. Everyone’s dying to know what tonight’s premiere has in store, and what the cast and crew think of it. I’ll be here all night getting exclusive interviews with all our favourite stars!” She glanced around, “In fact, here’s one now!” She leant back and called, “Mr Rogers! Steve Rogers, over here!”

A blond man appeared in Darcy’s frame, “Hello.” He smiled, and waved to the camera a little sheepishly. Jane was quick and efficient in getting the pleasantries over with, and dove into the questions.

“Mr Rogers, this is your first blockbuster in three years, how does it feel to be back in the big leagues?” She asked,

“Well, Ms Foster, it’s kind of a relief that this many people are still up to see me on the big screen,” he grinned, “And I feel good about this one. Peggy’s an amazing director, and I had a ton of fun filming this. I’ll imagine everyone’ll have just as much fun watching it.”

“Wonderful. Is your husband with you tonight? It’s been more than five years since the pair of you starred in a film together!”

“Ha. I suppose that’s true.” He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, a wedding ring catching the light of the camera flashes and glittering boldly. “Me and Tony, well, we think it’s best not to mix business and pleasure. Nat’s _Fighting Pits_ trilogy was an exception. Plus, we prefer doing very different kinds of film, so we audition for different stuff. Of course,” he then added, “He’s totally with me tonight, probably basking in the light of the paparazzi.”

“Maybe we’ll grab him for an interview later on!” Jane winked at the camera, “And what can you tell us about Bucky Barnes? He had a role in this film, didn’t he?”

“He did.” Steve agreed, “A small one. He and Nat have been taking it a little quieter lately.” Mostly into smaller-budget films with interesting concepts and lots of promise. It was partly to help lesser-known directors, actors and writers gain more recognition, but mostly because it was often more fun and more relaxed (and maybe it was big-headed, but more than once they’d both admitted they liked the gawking; it was hilarious). “But he’s there.”

“Awesome.” Jane grinned, “Well, I should probably let you get back to your adoring fans. Thanks so much for talking to us. There you have it, viewers, Steve Rogers!” Steve waved to the camera and offered a goodbye before slipping outside the frame. Jane heard Selvig in her ear, “I’ve just been told that Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanoff have arrived. We’re going to live-feed at the street and our correspondent, Donald Blake. Over to you, Don.”

“Thanks, Jane. That’s right, viewers, we’re live from the red carpet and the Scarlet Starlet’s just arrived along with her husband, Bucky Barnes. Both of them are close personal friends with the director and lead actor of this feature, and Barnes has already got experience with filming period blockbusters, having gained notoriety for _Howling Commandos_ from a few years back. This film by Carter, a sequel to _STRIKE Team Delta: Odessa_ from two years ago, titled _STRIKE Team Delta: Leviathan_ is the third in the increasingly-popular series but the earliest in the _STRIKE Delta_ franchise’s chronology. There’s already talk of a fourth film in the works.” Specifically, one set in the late forties and the wake of World War II, with Natasha’s character (already established to be an engineered cyborg, virtually indestructible and ageless), teaming up with Steve’s character of a post-WWII intelligence spy. “But for now, let’s see what the pair have to say about this one. Mr Barnes! Ms Romanoff!”

Natasha and Bucky just heard the call over the clamouring of paparazzi, and graciously wandered over. Wedding bands shone obviously on their hands, but Bucky wore his on his right hand, simply because it was flesh and blood, and he liked the weight of it on his finger (that said, it’d been there so long, it was more like he’d miss its weight if he took it off). She had her hands wrapped around his arm, and he was escorting her like quite the gentleman. Her dress was a modest dark blue, matching his tie. Otherwise he was dressed in plain black. He’d not worn a suit with a red-star since his wedding. It was still hung up in their closet, though, next to the special dress-bag holding Natasha’s gown.

“How are the two shining stars of Hollywood this evening?” Don asked them. Nat and Bucky shared a smile,

“Hardly shining stars by this point, we’ve been out of the spotlight for nearly five years!” Nat exclaimed, and Don guffawed,

“So what? The pair of you are _sensational_. All the mystery of your relationship, not to mention the films under your belts. Speaking of which,” he added, “For our viewers at home, could you tell us? Are the rumours of you in a forth _STRIKE Delta_ feature true?”

“They haven’t even green-lighted a fourth feature, yet.” Nat gave him nothing, ambiguously coy. Bucky laughed,

“Cards to her chest, this one.” He said fondly, putting his arm around her waist and hugging her close. She did the same, stealing a quick, clandestine squeeze of his ass as she did so. They waved to the camera with their free arms as Don continued,

“Fair enough. And how about your co-stars? Is it good to have the old _Avengers Studios_ gang back together?”

“It _is_ nice to see everyone.” Bucky agreed. The group extended well beyond just the actors. Peggy was a director, Matt wasn’t even _in_ the cinema business, and Thor was still running the Asgard (and was considering popping the question to Sif, no less. He’d come to Bucky for advice only last week). And Jaime of all people had been given a few small one-liners, and was (to her surprise as much as anyone’s) actually gaining a bit of popularity. Peter was officially part of the group, now that he and Becky were living together (Bucky still hadn’t quite gotten over his dislike of the boy, but he had gushed so much about Bucky’s prosthetic that the older man was finally starting to thaw a little), and both were working as photographers for a newspaper in New York. “But I don’t think we’ll be diving back into Hollywood as much as people hope we would.”

“I think we would be filming twenty-four-seven and it wouldn’t be as much as people hope.” Natasha pointed out, “But I’ve been having so much fun with _STRIKE Delta_ series, I would _happily_ do a fourth.”

“We might have to buy back the apartment.” Bucky teased. An obnoxiously blatant example of their sheer wealth, they’d given it to Jaime upon moving into their farmhouse full time – _they_ certainly didn’t need it, given how rarely they were in films nowadays. They had plenty of time to languish together, working on whatever took their fancy. Most recently, they’d been working on marksmanship and various forms of combat. It came with advantages for combat-orientated roles, but mostly it was just fun, and in the case of sparring, led to even more ‘fun’.

“Glad to know you’re on board – _if_ the green-light goes.” Don grinned, “Well, it was a pleasure talking to the pair of you, have a pleasant evening.”

Natasha smiled and squeezed James’ arm. “We will.” She replied, and the pair walked off. Don turned back to the camera.

“There you have it, folks.” He smiled, “Live from the red carpet, the Scarlet Starlet and her Mystery Man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This started out as a cutesy little AU fic and damn did it get BIG! Y'know I don't usually read AU fics. Sometimes they're a bunch of fun, but often I find them too jarring, so writing this was a bit of an experiment. With the exception of Jaime, who started off as sometimes of a one-time-gag character and grew into someone I just had _so much fun_ writing, everyone mentioned is in some way a real Marvel character, because I love dropping little (and not-so-little) Easter Eggs in my writing. If you made it this far, through the typos that inevitably escape my eye, and the weirdo subplots that I forget about how to resolve, I tip my hat to you sir (or madam) - or I would if I had one. 
> 
> I would absolutely LOVE to know what you think, so if you have a spare minute or two, _please_ leave a little something in the comments - reading them makes my day! From myself, the Scarlet Starlet and her Mystery Man, I thank you.


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